f 


VOICES 


OF 


THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


U)    ^ 


Whose  hearts  have  a  look  southward,  and  are  open 
To  the  great  noon  of  Nature.  Festus. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

FOR  SALE  BY  J.  MILLER  M'KIM,  NO.  31  NORTH  FIFTH  STREET, 

MERRIHEW  &  THOMPSON,  PRINTERS. 
1846. 


THE  LOVERS  OF    TILVT    TRUTH    AND  BEAUTY  WHICH  SHALL  EXALT  MEN   TO  A  HIGHER  LIFE, 

THIS  VOLUME, 

^ALTHOUGH  WRITTEN  BY  THOSE  WHO,  BECAUSE  THEY  WERE  HUMAN,  OFTEN  ERRED  ;    AND  EVEN 

IN  THE  PIECES  HEREIN  COLLECTED  DID  NOT  APPROVE  THEMSELVES  PERFECT, 


IS   DEDICATED, 


IN  THE  HOPE  THAT  ITS  GOOD  MAY  LIVE  FOR  EVER,  AND  ITS  EVIL  DIE  WITH  IT. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS   BT  HEJfllT  VV.  tONGFELlOW. 

Excelsior,  .         .  .         .         • 

A  Psalm  of  Life 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song, 

Endymion,  .         .         .         .         • 

The  light  of  Stars,     .... 

Reform,  

My  Philosophy,  .         .         .         • 

A  Christian  Colony,  by  Lydia  Maria  Child, 
Blind  old  Milton,  by  William  E.  Aytoun, 
Foot-Prints  of  Angels,  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

My  Soul  is  Free, 

Democracy,  by  John  G.  Whittier, 
The  Object  of  Life,  by  John  Todd,     . 
Christ-like,  by  Lydia  Maria  Child, 
The  Battle-field,  by  William  CuUen  Bryant, 
The  Star-Gazer,  by  Christopher  Pearse  Cranch, 
A  London  Lyric,  by  "  Barry  Cornwall,"    . 
Blankets,  (to  be  read  on  a  cold  night,)  by  "  Old 
Humphrey,"       ...... 

True  Rest,         ...... 

The  Mourners,  by  Caroline  E.  S.  Norton, 

My  Mother,  by  "  Old  Humphrey," 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs,  by  Thomas  Hood, 

Evening  Song  of  the  Weary,  by  Felicia  D.  Hemans, 

How  Jesus  was  Received,  by  Theodore  Parker, 

A  Christian  Slave,  by  John  G.  Whittier, 

Song  Writing,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,     . 

Capital  Punishment,  by  Lydia  Maria  Child,     . 

Moments,  by  Richard  Monckton  Milnes,     . 

A  Christian  Home,  by  R.  W.  Evans, 

Demagogue  Arts,  by  Lord  Brougham, 

An  Evening  Song,  by  Francis  K.  Butler,         . 

Lilias  Grieve,  by  Professor  Wilson, 

The  Cry  of  the  Children,  by  Elizabeth  B.  Barrett, 

Instinct  of  Childhood,  by  John  Neal, 

My  Friend, •         . 

The  Factory  Girls  of  Lowell,  by  J.  G.  Whittier, 
The  Labourer,  by  William  D.  Gallagher, 
Reform,  by  Thomas  L.  Harris, 
Truth  and  Freedom,  by  William  D.  Gallagher, 
A  Glimpse  at '  Merrie  England,'  by  Elizur  Wright, 
We  are  Brithcren  A',  by  Robert  Nicoll, 
The  Christian  Virgin  to  her  Apostate  Lover, 
Children,  by  Parke  Benjamin, 

Nelly  Belcher, 

Sonnet,  by  William  Lloyd  Garrison, 
The  Martyr  of  the  Arena,  by  Epes  Sargent, 
The    Anniversary   of  Lovejoy's    Martyrdom,  by 
Maria  Weston  Chapman,       .... 
The  Street,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 
"  For  Behold  the  Kingdom  of  God  is  within  you," 
by  Harriet  Winslow, 


1 
1 
1 

2 

2 

2 

4 

4 

6 

8 
10 
10 
11 
14 
16 
17 
17 

18 
19 
19 
19 
20 
21 
21 
22 
23 
27 
31 
31 
31 
32 
33 
35 
37 
39 
40 
41 
42 
42 
43 
44 
45 
45 
46 
47 
48 

48 
48 

49 


The  Brotherhood  of  Man,  by  John  G.  Whittier, 
The  Struggle  for  Fame,  by  Charles  Mackay, 
Song  of  the  Free,  ..... 

The  Poet,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 
The  Man  out  of  the  Moon,     .... 
The  Lady's  Yes,  by  Elizabeth  Barrett  Barrett,    . 
How  to  keep  Lent,  by  Robert  Herrick,     . 
Christian,    and   mere    Poetic   Benevolence,   con- 
trasted, by  Thomas  Chalmers, 
Recompense,  by  W.  G.  Sims, 

POK^MS    BY   CHniSTOPHEB   PEARSE    CBANCH. 

The  Soul  Flower, 

To  a  Humming  Bird,     ..... 
Silence  and  Speech,    ..... 
On  hearing  Triumphant  Music, 
Field  Notes, 


49 
50 
51 
51 
52 
55 
55 

56 
58 

58 
59 
59 
60 
61 

The  Poet, .62 

The  Ocean, 62 

Beauty,  .......     63 

The  Artist, 63 

First  Truths, 63 

The  Prophet  Unveiled,       ....         64 
Dirge  for  a  young  Girl,  by  James  T.  Fields,        .     64 

To  Little  Mary, 64 

The  Slave  Market  at  Washington,  by  John  G. 

Whittier, G5 

On    seeing  in  a  List  of  Music,   the  •  Waterloo 

Waltz,' .67 

Landing  of  the   Pilgrim  Fathers,  by  Felicia  D. 
Hemans,         .......     67 

Dietetic  Reform,  by  James  Sellers,  Jr.,  .  .  68 
Thoughts  in  a  Library,  by  Anne  C.  Lynch,  .  69 
Letter  from  C.  C.  Burleigh,  •  "         '^^ 

To  the  Unsatisfied,  by  Harriet  Winslow,  .     73 

The  Happy  Life,  by  Sir  Henry  Wotton,  .         73 

liife's  Pilgrimage,  by  Robert  Nicoll,  .  •     74 

The  Happy  Home,         .         .         .         ■         •         74 

Childhood! 75 

The  Dead  Child,  by  William  H.  Burleigh,  .  77 
Summer  Woods,  by  Mary  Howitt,  .  .  .77 
The  Poor  Voter's  Song,  ....         78 

Fashionable  Follies, 78 

Hcart's-Ease, 80 

Faith,  by  Francis  Ann  Butler,  .  .  .80 
The  Last  Wish 80 

SONNETS   BY   JONES  VERY. 

The  Soldier,  .... 

The  Dead, 

The  Grave-Yard,   . 

To  the  Pure  all  Things  are  Pure, 

Sympathy,  .... 

Time  Instant,         ..... 
Ephemera,  by  Charles  West  Thompson, 


81 
81 
81 
81 
81 
81 
83 


CONTENTS, 


SOXNETS   BT  RICHARD   CHENETIX  TRENCH. 

The  NobliT  Cunning,    ..... 

Vesuvius,  ...... 

*   France,  1834,  ...... 

Wild-Flowers,    ...... 

All  Mortf^aged,  by  Elilui  nurrilt,  .         .  *      . 

A  Christmas  Tale,  liy  Hicliard  Monkton  Milnes, 
Knwritttn  Music,  by  N.  P.  Willis, 
'J"o  Coluinljus  Dying,  by  VV.  H.  Furness, 
The  Fatherland,  by  James  JIussell  Lowell, 

The  two  Paths, 

Cold  Water,  by  John  Pierpont, 
A  Gentle  Story,         .         ,         ^         .         .         . 
The  Ghost-Seer,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 
I'he  Lady's  Dream,  by  Thomas  Hood, 
Mountain  Children,  by  Mary  Howitt, 
Letter  to  the  Unknown  Purchaser  and  Next  Oc- 
cupant ot'Glenmary,  by  N.  P.  Willis, 
The  Alderman's  Funeral,  by  Robert  Southey, 
My  Child,  by  Joiin  J'ierpont, 
The  Dew-Drop,  by  Richard  Chenevix  Trench, 
A  Commission  of  Lunacy,  by  Charles  F.  Briggs, 
The  Spring,  by  George  S.  Burleigh,     . 
The  Beggar,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 
The  Aioon,  by  L.  E.  L., 
The  Gambler's  Wife,  by  Reynell  Coates, 
Channing,  by  Charles  F.  Briggs, 
Unseen  Spirits,  by  N.  P.  Willis, 
Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  by  Alfred  Tennyson 
Adversity,  by  Lord  Bacon,     .... 
Song  for  August,  by  Harriet  Martincau, 
Song  of  the  Mountain  Weaver, 
The  Freed  Bird,  by  Amelia  Wclby, 

Be  Patient, 

The  Wife,  from  the  German  of  Stolberg, 
Mother,  by  "  Phazma,"         .... 
The  Goblet  of  Life,  by  Henry  W,  Longfellow, 
The    Slave  Singing   at  Midnight,  by  Henry  W. 
Longfellow,  ...... 

POEMS    BY   HAXJfAH  F.  GOCLU. 

The  Winter  King 

The  Rising  Eagle, 

Worship  by  the  Rose  Tree, 
Heroism,  by  Walph  Waldo  Emerson, 

AXTI-SLAVKUT   POEMS   BY   JOHN"   PIEHPOXT. 

'J'he  Chain,      ...... 

Tlifi  Fugitive  Slave's  Apostrophe  to  the  North 

Star 

Hymn  for  the  First  of  August, 
The  Celesti:d  Railroad,  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 
Sonnet  to  J.  M.  K.,  by  Alfred  Tennyson, 
The  Leveller,  by  "  Barry  Cornwall." 
The  Solemn  Sons  of  a  Righteous  Hearle,  by  Wil- 
liam Motiierwell, 

The  Soul's  Errand,  bv  Joshua  Sylvester, 

Etty  Rover,  by  L.  E.'L 

'J'he  Irish  Emigrant's  Lament,  by  Mrs.  Blackwood, 
A  Dirge,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 
Prison  Discipline,  by  Lydia  Maria  Child, 


The  Snow-Storm, 

Sonnets  on  the  l^ord's  Prayei.  by  Robt.  'i'.  Conr 

forest   Wood,  by  Ebenezer  l^lliott, 

The  Human  Sacrifice,  by  John  (;.'  Whitlicr, 


84 
84 
84 
84 
84 
86 
88 
93 
93 
94 
94 
94 
95 
97 
98 

98 

100 
101 
101 
102 
104 
105 
105 
106 
106 
106 
107 
107 
108 
108 
109 
110 
110 
110 
111 

111 

111 

112 
112 
113 

117 

117 
118 
119 
125 
126 

126 
127 
127 
128 
129 
130 
134 
135 
135 
135 
136 
136 
137 
1  13 
M4 


POEMS  BT   WILLIAM   H.  BURLEIGH. 

"  The  Earth  is  the  Lord's,"  . 

H.  A.  B., 

Mary  Howitt, 

'i"o  my  t^uaker  Cousin, 

Stanzas,  to  the  Abolitionists  of  America, 

The  Freeman,  .... 

Solitude,       ...... 

Archy  Moore,  ..... 

A  Sunnner  Morning  in  the  Country,     . 
Exjiostulation,  .... 

'J'hc  Old  Man's  Soliloquy, 

Our  Bessie,       ..... 

The  Witnesses,  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 


147 
147 
148 
148 
149 
149 
149 
150 
150 
151 
151 
152 
152 


SOXNETS   BY   HENRY    KLLISOX. 

The  Stars 

Thought,     ....... 

World-Music,  ..... 

Whom  to  Please,  .  .  .  .  • 

An  Answer,      ...... 

To  Keats,     ....... 

How  to  seek  Truth,  .... 

The  Purpose  of  a  Life,  .... 

Self-Greatness,  ..... 

On  Seeing  a  Poor  Man  to  wliom  I  had  given 
Clothing,  ...... 

Ambition,         ..,,.. 

Hopes  of  the  Future,  ..... 

On  sonic  Flowers  about  a  Cottage,  . 

Means  of  Civilization,  .... 

The  Heart's  Places  of  Worship, 
The  Scottish  Reformers,  by  John  G.  Whittier, 
The  Slave's  Dream,  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 
Missionary  Hymn  for  the  South, 
'J'he  Fountain,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  . 

Maidenhood,  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 
The  Hymn  of  the  dew,     .         .         ,         .         . 

SONGS    BY    "  BAHRY  COKSWALL.' 

Hcrmoine,        ...... 

Song  should  Breathe,  ..... 

The  Song  of  a  Felon's  Wife,    . 

The  W^eaver's  Song,    ..... 
Sabbath  in  Lowell,  by  John  G.  Whittier, 
To  Life,  by  Mrs.  Barbauld,       .... 
Lines,  by  William  Wordsworth,     . 
"^I'hey  arc  all  Gone,  by  Henry  Vaughan,    . 
The  Fairies  of  the  Caldon-Low,  by  Mary  Howitt, 
Sweet   Phosphor,   bring    the    Day,    by    Francis 

Quarlcs,       ....... 

The  Death-bed,  by  Thomas  Hood, 
(iracc  before  Meat,  by  Charles  Lamb,    . 
The  Ocean,  by  John  Augustus  Shea, 
Hymn  to  the  Flowers,  by  Horace  Smith, 
A  Song,  by  Thomas  Churchyard,     . 
Love  for  All.   by  Lydia  Maria  Child,     . 
Afar  in  the  Desert,  by  Thomas  Pringle,     . 
The  awakening  of  Endymion, 
Tlic  Infant's  Dream,  .... 

The  Beautiful,  by  John  G.  Whittier.     . 
A  Christmas  Hymn,  by  Alfred  Dommett. 
The  (Jood  Part  that  shall  not  betaken  awav, 

lli'iiry  ^^'.  Longfellow,      .  .  .      ' 

Not  on  the  Battle  Field,  by  John  Pierpont, 
Sonnet,  by  M'illiam  \\',  Storv, 
Ignorance  of  the  Learned,  liy  William  Hazli 


153 
153 
153 
153 
153 
153 
153 
154 
154 

154 
154 
154 
154 
154 
155 
155 
159 
159 
160 
160 
161 


(Jo  forth  into  the  Fields,  by  William  J.  Pabodic, 


An  Incideni  in  a  Railroad  Car,  by  James  Ru 
Lou 


bv 


II. 


I'll 


161 
161 
161 
161 
162 
164 
164 
166 
166 

167 
167 
168 
170 
171 
171 
172 
174 
175 
176 
177 
179 

179 
180 
180 
181 
184 

185 


CONT  ENTS. 


IIISTOHTCAl   ERAS. 

Declaration  of  Independence,        .         -         .  1S6 
Declaration    of  Sentiments  of  ihc   American 

Anti-rSlavcry  Society,         ....  188 
Declaration  of  Sentiments  of  the  American 

Non-Kcsistancc  Society,  .  .         .190 

On  Anotiior's  Sorrow,  by  William  Blake,      .  192 

Absence,  by  Frances  A.  Butler,         .          .          .  192 

To  an  Infant,  by  William  Lloyd  Harrison,     .  192 

To  M.  W.,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,         .         .  193 

Deforming — Reforming,  by  Lydia  Maria  Child,  195 
To  the  Daisy,  by  G.  Wither,    .          ,         .          .199 

Song  of  the  Spirit  of  Poverty,  by  Eliza  Cook,  199 

A  Wren's  Nest,  by  William  Wordsworth,     .  200 
Women's   Rights   and   Duties,  by  Lydia  Maria 

Child, 201 

The  Forlorn,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  .  204 
Old  Maids,  by  Hans  Von  Spirgel,  •  .  .  204 
Birds,  by  Lydia  Maria  Child,  .  .  .  205 
Lucy,  by  William  Wordsworth,  .  .  .  207 
In  Sadness,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  .  208 
She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight,  by  Wm. Words- 
worth,                   .         .  208 

The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar,  by  Wm.  Words- 
worth,        :  209 

From  ''  Lowell's  Conversations,"      .          .          .  211 

Stanzas,  by  John  G.  Whittier,       .         .          .  214 

The  Contrast,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,             .  215 
The  Arsenal  at  Springfield,  by  Henry  W.  Jjong- 

fellow, 215 

The  Economy  of  Slavery,  by  Lydia  Maria  Child,  216 

Heart-Leap  Well,  by  William  Wordsworth,       .  218 

"  May  I  Come  Up  ?"              ....  219 

Love  and  Faith,  by  Lydia  Maria  Child,              .  220 

A  Chippewa  Legend,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  221 

Prometheus,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,      .          .  225 

Hope,  by  Richard  Penn  Smith,     .          .         .  228 

From  Longfellow's  Hyperion,            .         ,         .  228 

The  Yankee  Girl,  by  John  G.  Whittier,         .  232 
The  Ballad  of  Casandia  Southwick,  by  John  G. 

Whittier, 233 

The  Indian  Girl's  Burial,  by  Lydia  H.  Sigourney,  236 

Never  Despair,         ......  237 

A  Requiem,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  .  237 
A  Man's  a  Man,  for  a'  that,  by  Robert  Burns,  238 
Footsteps  of  Angels,  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow,  238 
Lines  written  on  reading  several  Pamphlets  pub- 
lets  published  by  Clergymen  against  the  abo- 
lition of  the  Gallows,  by  John  G.  M^hittier,  239 
Hunger  and  Cold,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  .  240 
Think  of  our  Countiy's  Glory,  by  Elizabeth  M. 

Chandler, 240 

The  Silver  Tankard, 241 

POEMS    BT   JIAHT    HOWITT. 

A  Forest  Scene, 243 

The  Baron's  Daughter,  .         .  .         .245 

The  English  Porcupine,             .         .         .  246 

Birds, 246 

Household  Treasures,         ....  247 

Little  Children,              247 

The  Cypress  Tree  of  Ceylon,  bv  J.  G.Whittier,  248 

It  is  Little,  by  Thomas  N.  Talford,            .          .  248 

Our  Father,  by  F.  A.  Krummacher,       .         .  249 

To  my  Books,"  by  Caroline  E.  S.  Norton,           .  249 

ENGLISH     DESTITUTIOX. 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt,  by  Thomas  Hood,  .         249 

A  Starvation  Anthem  for  the  Royal  Christening,  250 

Sonnet,  by  Frances  Ann  Butler,  .         .         250 


The  Emigrant's  Family,  .         .         .         •     251 

A  Funeral,  by  Henry  Allbrd,         .  •  •  252 

The  Water  Drinker's  Song,     .  .  .  •     ■^•^'^ 

A  Glance  behind  the  Curtain,  by  James  Russell 

Lowell,         .......     ^^'^ 

A  Day  in  Autumn,  by  John  11.  Bryant,         .         256 
Clear  the  Way,  by  Charles  Mackay,  .         .     256 

Sonnet,  by  Joseph  Blanco  White,         .  .  256 

To  the  Evening  Wind,  by  William  CuUcn  Bryant,  257 
Labour,  by  Frances  S.  Osgood,  .         .         .     257 

A  Lyric  for  the  Times,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,     258 
Song,  by  Thomas  Moore,  ....     259 

The  Falconer,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,        .         260 
Love  and  Live,         .  .....     260 

The  Good,  by  Anne  C.  Lynch,     ...         260 
A  True  Patriot,  by  James  C.  Fields,         .  .     261 

Gone,  by  John  G.'  Whittier,  .  .         •         262 

Light,  by  Ebcnezer  Elliot,         .  .  .         .262 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem,  by  John  G.  Whittier,  263 
Song,  by  Felicia  D.  Hemans,  .  .         .     263 

Forefathers'  Day,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  .  264 
From  "  Dream  Love,"  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  265 
The  Poor  Man's  Death  Bed,  by  Caroline  Southey,  267 
Sonnet,  by  George  S.  Burleigh,  .  .  .     267 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Clianning,  by  James 

Russell  Lowell,         ....'• 
Abou  Ben  Adhem,  by  Leigh  Hunt, 
The  Wasted  Flowers,  .... 

Epitome  of  War,  by  The  "Ettrick  Shepherd," 
The  Free  Mind,  by  William  Lloyd  Garrison, 
The  Revellers,  by  William  D.  Gallagher, 
To  a  Waterfowl,  by  William  Cullen  Bryant, 
The  Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mother  to  her 

Daughters,  sold  into  Southern  Bondage,  by 

John  G.  Whittier, 

We  thave  been  Friends  together,    by  Caroline 

E.  S.  Norton, 

The  Female  Martyr,  by  John  G.  Whittier, 
We  live  in  Deeds  not  Years, 


268 
268 
S69 
269 
269 
270 
270 


271 

271 
272 
272 


POE?IS  ON  SOME  INCIDETS  OF  AXTI-SLAVEKT. 

To  the  Meraoiy  of  Charles  B.  Storrs,  by  John 

G.Whittier, 273 

Song  of  the  Free,  by  John  G.  Whittier,  .  274 

Clerical  Oppressors,  by  John  G.  Whittier,  275 
To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley,  by  John 

G.  Whittier, ^.275 

liines  written  on  the  adoption  of  Pinckney's 
Resolutions,  in  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives, and  the  passage  of  Calhoun's  "  Bill 
of  Abominations"  to  a  second  reading,  in 
the  Senate  of  the  United  States.     By  John 

G.  Whittier, 276 

The  voice  of  Blood,  by  J.  Blanchard,         .  277 

Elijah  P.  Lovejoy,  by  William  H.  Burleigh,  -  277 

Wendell  PhilHps,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  277 

A  Word  from  a  Petitioner,  by  John  Pierpont,  278 

The  Tocsin,  by  John  Pierpont,  .  .  279 

On  the  Death  of  S.  Oliver  Torrcy,   by  John 

G.  Whittier, 280 

The  Slave  Ships,  by  John  G.  Whittier,         .  281 
Husbands  for  Female  Petitioners,      .          .  282 
The  One  Idea,  by  Sarah  Jane  Clarke,   .          .  283 
Massachusetts  to  Virginia,  by  J.  G.  Wliittier,  2S4 
Texas,  by  John  G.  ^^'hittier,     .         .          .  286 
The  Branded  Hand,  by  John  G.  Whittier,     .  287 
To  Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  by  Wm.  Words- 
worth,          ......  288 

Leggett's  Monument,  by  John  G.  Whittier,  .  288 


CONTEXTS, 


SOXNETS  BT  RICHARD   CHENETIX  TRENCH. 

The  NobliT  Cunning,    .  .  .         .  .84 

Vesuvius,  ......  84 

'    Franrc,  1834, 84 

Wild-Flowers, 84 

All  Morti,'aged,  by  Elilui  Rurrilt,  .         .  '      .     84 

A  Cliristnias  Tale,  hy  Hiuliard  Monkton  Milne.s,  86 
Unwritten  Music,  by  .\.  P.  Willis,  .  .         88 

'i'o  (\)lunil)us  Dying,  by  VV.  H.  Furness,  .     93 

The  Fatherland,  by  James  IJussell  Lowell,       .         93 

The  two  Paths, 94 

Cold  Water,  by  John  Pierpont,  ...  94 
A  Gentle  Story,  .,,...  94 
The  Ghost-.Seer,  by  James  Russell  liOwell,  .  95 
The  Lady's  Dream,  by  Thomas  Hood,         .  .     97 

Mountain  Children,  by  Mary  Howitt,       .         .         98 
Letter  to  the  Unknown  Purchaser  and  Next  Oc- 
cupant ol"  Glenmary,  by  N.  P.  Willis,      .         .     98 
The  Alderman's  Funeral,  by  Robert  Southey,         100 
My  Child,  by  John  J'ierpont,  .  .  ,  101 

The  Dew-Drop,  by  Richard  Chenevix  'JVench,  101 
A  Commission  of  Lunacy,  by  Charles  F.  Briggs,  102 
The  Spring,  by  George  S.  Burleigh,  . 
The  Beggar,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 
The  Moon,  by  L.  E.  L., 
The  Gambler's  Wife,  by  Reynell  Coates, 
Channing,  by  Charles  F.  Briggs, 
Unseen  Spirits,  by  N.  P.  Willis, 
Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  by  Alfred  Tennyson 
Adversity,  by  Lord  Bacon,  .... 
Song  for  August,  by  Harriet  Martijicau,  . 
Song  of  the  .Mountain  Weaver, 
The  Freed  Bird,  by  Amelia  Wclhy, 

Be  Patient, 

The  Wife,  from  the  German  of  Stolberg, 
Mother,  by  "  Phazma,"         .... 
The  Goblet  of  Life,  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 
The    Slave  Singing   at  Midnight,  by  Henry  W 
Longfellow,  ...... 

l"OE:>rS    BY    IlAXJfAH  F.  GOCLD. 

The  Winter  King, 

The  Rising  Eagle, 

Worship  by  the  Rose  Tree, 
Heroism,  by  l^alph  Waldo  Emerson, 

AXTI-SLAVKUT   POKMS   BY   JOIIN-   PIERPONT. 

'J'he  Chain,      ...... 

The  Fugitive  Slave's  Apostrophe  to  the  North 

Star 

Hymn  for  the  First  of  August, 
The  Celestial  Railroad,  by  Nathaniel  Hawthonjc, 
Sonnet  to  J.  M.  K.,  by  Alfred  Tennyson, 
The  lievellcr,  by  "  Barry  ('ornwall," 
The  Solemn  Song  of  a  Righteous  Hearle,  by  Wil- 
liam Motherwell, 

The  Soul's  Errand,  bv  Joshua  Sylvester, 

Etty  Rover,  by  L.  E.'L 

T'VV^"'^'^  Emigrant's  Lament,  by  Mrs.  Blackwood,  128 

.     129 

130 

igh,  134 

.     135 

135 

.     13.5 

136 

.     136 

137 

1  1  :l 

114 

145 


104 
105 
105 
106 
106 
106 
107 
107 
108 
108 
109 
110 
110 
110 
111 

111 

111 

112 
112 
113 

117 

117 
118 
119 
125 
126 

126 

127 
127 


A  Dirge,  by  James  Russell  I>ovve.., 
Prison  Discipline,  by  Lydia  Maria' Child, 
'i'he  French  Revolution,  by  William  H.  Burh 
Books  for  the  People,  by  Anne  C.  I,ynch, 
The  Pauper's  Drive,  by  Baj.list  Noel, 
'J'he  Chimtiey-Swcepcr,  bv   William  jjlake, 
The  Poor  Man's  Day,  by  Ehene/.er  Elliott,     . 
The  'JVmplr  of  Nature,  by  Dr.  Challield, 
The  Suow-Sform,  .  . 

Sonnets  on  the  Lord's  Prayer,  by  Kobt.  T.  Con 
Forest   Wood,  by   Ebene/.cr  lllljott, 
The  Human  Sacrifice,  by  .John  (;.'  Whitijer, 


POEMS  RT   WILLIAM   H.  BURLEIGH. 

"  The  Earth  is  the  liord's,"  . 

H.  A.  B., 

Mary  Howitt,        ..... 

'J'o  my  Quaker  (-'ousin. 

Stanzas,  to  the  Abolitionists  of  America, 

The  Freeman,  .... 

Solitude,       ...... 

Archy  Moore,  ..... 

A  Summer  Morning  in  tlie  Country,     . 
Exjiostulation,  .... 

'J'he  Old  Man's  Soliloquy, 

Our  Bessie,       ...... 

The  Witnesses,  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 


147 
147 
148 
148 
149 
149 
149 
150 
150 
151 
151 
152 
152 


SOXXETS   BY   HEXRY    ELLISOX. 

The  Stars 

'J'hought,     ....... 

World-Music,  ..... 

Whom  to  Please,  ..... 

An  Answer,      ...... 

To  Keats,     ....... 

How  to  seek  Truth, 

The  Purpose  of  a  Life,  .... 

Self-Greatness,  ..... 

On  Seeing  a  Poor  Man  to  whom  I  had  given 
Clothing,  ...... 

Ambition,         ...... 

Hopes  of  the  Future,   ..... 

On  some  Flowers  about  a  Cottage,  . 

Means  of  Civilization,  .... 

The  Heart's  Places  of  Worship, 
The  Scottish  Reformers,  by  John  G.  W^hittier, 
The  Slave's  Dream,  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 
Missionnry  Hymn  for  the  South, 
The  Fountain,  by  James  Rus.scll  Lowell, 
Maidenhood,  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 
The  Hymn  of  the  dew,     .         .         ,         .         . 

SOXGS    BY    "  BARRY  CORSWALL.' 

Hermoine,        ...... 

Song  should  Breathe,  ..... 

The  Song  of  a  Felon's  Wife,    . 

The  Weaver's  Song,    ..... 
Sabbath  in  Lowell,  by  John  G.  Whittier, 
To  Life,  Iiy  Mrs.  Barhauld,       .... 
Lines,  by  \\"illiain  Wordsworth,     . 
'i'hey  are  all  Gone,  by  Henry  Vaughan,    . 
The  Fairies  of  the  Caldon-Low,  by  Mary  Howitt, 
Sneet   Phosphor,  bring    the    Day,    by   Francis 

Quarles,        ....... 

The  Deatli-bed,  by  Thomas  Hood, 

(iracc  before  Meat,  by  Charles  Lamb,    . 

The  Ocean,  by  John  Augustus  Shea, 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers,  by  Horace  Smith, 

A  Song,  by  Thomas  Churchyard,     . 

Love  for  .\11.   by  Lydia  Maria  Child,     . 

Afar  in  the  Desert,  by  Thomas  Pringle,     . 

The  awakening  of  Endymion, 

'J'he  Infant's  Dream,  ..... 

'i'he  15eautilul,  by  John  G.  Whittier.     . 

\  Christmas  Hymn,  by  .\lfred  Dommett, 

'J'he  (Jood  Part  that  shall  not  be  taken  away,  by 

Hi'iny  ^^'.  Longfellow,     .  .         .      '    . 

Not  on  the  Hiitllc  Field,  by  John  Pierpont, 
Sonnet,  by  M  ilJiam  M'.  Storv, 
Ignorance  of  the  Learned,  l)y  William  HazlitI, 
(m)  forth  into  the  Fields,  by  William  J.  Pabodie. 
.\ii  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car,  by  James  Ru.s.sell 

Lowell,      ...'.. 


153 
153 
153 
153 
153 
153 
153 
154 
154 

154 
154 
154 
154 
154 
155 
155 
159 
159 
160 
160 
161 


161 
161 
161 
161 
162 
164 
164 
166 
166 

167 
167 
168 
170 
171 
171 
170 

1; 
1; 
1; 
1; 
1; 

179 
180 
180 
181 
184 

185 


CONTENTS. 


HISTOHTCAI,   ERAS. 

Declaration  of  Independence, 
Declaration    of  Sentiments  of  (he   American 
Anti-tSlavcry  Society,         .... 
Declaration  of  Sentiments  of  the  American 
Non-Resistance  Society, 

On  Another's  Sorrow,  hy  William  Blake, 

Absence,  by  Frances  A.  Butler, 

'I'o  an  Infant,  hy  William  Lloyd  Garrison,     . 

To  M.  W.,  hy  James  Kussell  Lowell, 

Deforming — Keforming,  hy  Lydia  Maria  Child, 

To  the  Daisy,  hy  G.  Wither,    .... 

Song  of  the  Spirit  of  Poverty,  hy  Eliza  Cook, 

A  Wren's  Nest,  hy  William  Wordsworth,     . 

Women's    Rights   and   Duties,  hy  Lydia  Maria 
Child, 

The  Forlorn,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 

Old  Maids,  hy  Hans  Von  Spirgel,     . 

Birds,  hy  Lydia  Maria  Child, 

Lucy,  hy  William  Wordsworth, 

In  Sadness,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight,  hy  Wm. Words- 
worth, .....         c         . 

The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar,  by  Wm.  Words- 
worth,      .....  .         : 

From  ''  Lowell's  Conversations," 

Stanzas,  hy  John  G.  Whittier, 

The  Contrast,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield,  hy  Henry  W.  liOng- 
fellow,  ....... 

The  Economy  of  Slavery,  by  Lydia  Maria  Child, 

Heart-Leap  Well,  hy  William  Wordsworth, 

"  May  I  Come  Up  1"  .... 

Love  and  Faith,  hy  Lydia  Maria  Child, 

A  Chippewa  Legend,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 

Prometheus,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 

Hope,  by  Richard  Penn  Smith,     . 

From  Longfellow's  Hyperion, 

The  Yankee  Girl,  by  John  G.  Whittier, 

The  Ballad  of  Casandra  Southwick,  by  John  G. 
Whittier, 

The  Indian  Girl's  Burial,  hy  Lydia  H.  Sigourney,  236 


The  Emigrant's  Family,  .         •         •         .251 

A  Funeral,  hy  Henry  Alford,         .  •         •         25i 

The  Water  Drinker's  iSong,     .         .  .         •     -'^'^ 

A  Glance  behind  the  Curtain,  by  James  Russell 
Lowell,         .......     ^^-^ 

A  Day  in  Autumn,  by  John  II.  Bryant,         .         256 
Clear  the  Way,  hy  Charles  Mackay,  .         .     256 

Sonnet,  by  Joseph  Blanco  White,         .  .  256 

To  the  Evening  Wind,  by  William  CuUen  Bryant,  257 
Labour,  hy  Frances  S.  Osgood,  .         .         .     257 

A  Lyric  for  the  Times,  hy  James  Russell  Lowell,     258 
Song,  by  Thomas  Moore,  ....     259 

The  Falconer,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,        .         260 
Love  and  Live,        .  .....     260 

The  Good,  by  Anne  C.  Lynch,     .         .         .         260 
A  True  Patriot,  hy  James  C.  Fields,  .  .     261 

Gone,  by  John  G.  Whittier,  .  .         .         262 

Light,  hy  libenezer  Elliot,         .  .  .         .262 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem,  by  John  G.  Whittier,  263 
Song,  hy  Felicia  D.  Hemans,  .  .         .     263 

Forefathers'  Day,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  .  264 
From  "  Dream  Love,"  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  265 
The  Poor  Man's  Death  Bed,  by  Caroline  Southey,  267 
Sonnet,  by  George  S.  Burleigh,  .  .  .     267 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Channing,  by  James 

Russell  Lowell,         .....         268 
Abou  Ben  Adhem,  by  Leigh  Hunt,  .         .     268 

The  Wasted  Flowers,  ....         269 

Epitome  of  War,  by  The  "Ettrick  Shepherd,"  269 
The  Free  Mind,  by  William  Lloyd  Garrison,  269 
The  Revellers,  by  William  D.  Gallagher,  .     270 

To  a  Waterfowl,  hy  William  CuUen  Bryant,  270 
The  Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mother  to  her 

Daughters,   sold  into  Southern  Bondage,  hy 

John  G.  Whittier, 271 

We  ^have  been  Friends  together,    by  Caroline 

E.  S.  Norton, 271 

The  Female  Martyr,  hy  John  G.  Whittier,  .  272 
We  live  in  Deeds  not  Years,         .         .         .         272 


1S6 

188 

190 
192 
192 
192 
193 
195 
199 
199 
200 

201 
204 
204 
205 

207 
208 

208 

209 
211 
214 
215 

215 
216 
218 
219 
220 
221 
225 
228 
228 
232 


Never  Despair, 
A  Requiem,  by  James  Russell  Lowell, 
A  Man's  a  Man,  for  a'  that,  by  Robert  Burns, 
Footsteps  of  Angels,  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 
Lines  written  on  reading  several  Pamphlets  pub- 
lets  published  by  Clergymen  against  the  abo- 
lition of  the  Gallows,  hy  John  G.  Whittier, 
Hunger  and  Cold,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,     . 
Think  of  our  Country's  Glory,  by  Elizabeth  M. 
Chandler,  ...... 

The  Silver  Tankard, 


237 
237 
238 
238 


239 
240 

240 
241 


POr.MS    BT   MAHY    HOWITT. 

A  Forest  Scene,        .....  243 

The  Baron's  Daughter,          ....  245 

The  English  Porcupine,             .         .         .  246 

Birds, 246 

Household  Treasures,         ....  247 

Little  Children,              247 

The  Cypress  Tree  of  Ceylon,  by  J.  G.Whittier,  248 

It  is  Little,  hy  Thomas  N.  Talford,            .          .  248 

Our  Father,  hy  F.  A.  Krummacher,       .         .  249 

To  my  Books,"  by  Caroline  E.  S.  Norton,           .  249 

ENGLISH     DESTITUTIOIV. 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt,  by  Thomas  Hood,  .  249 

A  Starvation  Anthem  for  the  Royal  Christening,  250 

Sonnet,  hy  Frances  Ann  Butler,            .         .  250 


POEMS  OIT  SOME   INCIDETS  OF  ANTI-SLATERT. 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  B.  Storrs,  hy  John 

G.Whittier, 273 

Song  of  the  Free,  by  John  G.  Whittier,          .  274 

Clerical  Oppressors,  by  John  G.  Whittier,  275 
To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley,  by  John 

G.  Wliittier, ^.275 

liines  written  on  the  adoption  of  Pinckney's 
Resolutions,  in  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives, and  the  passage  of  Calhoun's  "  Bill 
of  Abominations"  to  a  second  reading,  in 
the  Senate  of  the  United  States.     By  John 

G.  Whittier, 276 

The  voice  of  Blood,  by  J.  Blanchard,         .  277 

Elijah  P.  Lovejoy,  by  William  H.  Burleigh,  -  277 

Wendell  Philhps,  by  James  Russell  Lowell,  277 

A  Word  from  a  Petitioner,  hy  John  Pierpont,  278 

The  Tocsin,  by  John  Pierpont,           .          .  279 
On  the  Death  of  S.  Oliver  Torrcy,   hy  John 

G.  Whittier, 280 

The  Slave  Ships,  hy  John  G.  Whittier,         .  281 
Husbands  for  Female  Petitioners,      ,          .  282 
The  One  Idea,  by  Sarah  Jane  Clarke,   .          .  283 
Massachusetts  to  Virginia,  hy  J.  G.  Whittier,  2S4 
Texas,  by  John  G.  Whittier,     ...  286 
The  Branded  Hand,  by  John  G.  Whittier,     .  287 
To  Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  by  Wm.  Words- 
worth,          ......  288 

liCggett's  Monument,  by  John  G.  Whittier,  .  288 


VOICES 


or 


THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


E. 


So  loud  and  long  have  the  multitude  chaunted  the  glory  of  low  pleasures,  that  the  voices  of  true-hearted 
men  have  scarcely  been  heard  in  the  world's  chorus.  Now  and  then,  in  the  interludes  of  passion,  when  a 
holy  calm  has  fallen  upon  the  spirits  of  all, — ^when  the  pestilence  has  walked  at  noon-day,  or  the  power  of 
the  Most  High  has  been  otherwise  vividly  shown, — Truth  and  lloliness  seemed  to  1)ear  some  sway  in  the 
souls  and  words  of  men.  But  again  came  the  old  passion : — again  the  old  chaunt  arose  from  city,  hill- 
side, and  valley-depth  ;■  and  again  the  voice  of  God  in  the  soul,  and  the  voices  of  true-hearted  men  were 
unheeded;  or,  if  some  fragments  of  them  were  caught,  heeded  only  tO  be  derided  by  those  whose  spirits 
grovelled  in  the  dust,  and  knew  not  how  glorious  was  the  love  and  beauty  of  the  Most  High. 

One  there  was,  ages  ago,  who  amid  scoffing — loneliness  of  heart — peril — death — spake  out  the  pure 
truth  as  he  received  it  from  the  Father.  His  was  no  wreath  of  flowers  awarded  by  men  to  the  noblest. 
And  as  to  him  was  awarded  a  crown  of  thorns, — to  those  whose  voices  joined  with  his  for  love  and  truth, 
in  defiance  of  form — custom — selfishness,  like  crowns  were  given  ;  and  soldiers  who  enlisted  in  works  ot 
darkness, — Pharisees  trailing  about  long  texts  on  their  garments,  but  not  in  their  hearts, — Sadducees  living 
only  for  the  present, — and  the  fickle  mob,  shouted  in  derision,  and  spit  upon  them,  and  crucified  them  in 
not  less  fearful  Golgothas  than  that  of  old. 

But  danger  never  stifled  truth.  In  all  ages  some  brave  men  have  been  raised  up,  true  lovers  of  God,  who 
lived  only  in  Him,  whose  only  fear  was  to  neglect  His  will, — men  who  could  bear  the  taunt  calmly,  who 
could  joy  in  the  tortures  af  the'  Inquisition,  who  could  give  up  home,  and  parents,  and  children,  and 
wife  for  Truth's  sake.  These  men  reasoned  and  exhorted  and  rebuked  by  the  way  side, — at  the  social 
gathering,  public  feast,  and  solemn  meeting — unawed  by  the  presence  of  the  self-righteous  or  open  scoffer; 
and  wrought  their  good  works,  until  riiuny  hearts  beat — not  for  praise — not  for  wealth — not  for  power — 
not  for  showy  learning,  but — for  the  pure  truth  spoken  by  Jesus,  and  now  uttered  by  God  in  every  spirit 
willing  to  heed   it. 

On,  on,  on  ! — The  voices  grew  as  time  rocked  the  zephyr  into  the  hurricane.  The  strong  soul  poured 
forth  glorious  thoughts.  Men  became  habituated  to  the  idea  and  practice  of  high  truth.  The  possibility 
of  change  for  the  better  was  acknowledged.  Glory  to  God  rang  abroad  over  the  earth — lo  Paens,  \\n- 
like  the  foul  praises  that  were  wont  to  be  offered  up. 

Some  of  the  words  of  these  lovers  of  the  All-True,  or  echoes  of  them,  have  fallen  upon  my  ear,  and  stir- 
red up  within  me  such  free  born  thoughts  and  craving  for  true  purity,  that  I  cannot  forbear  to  scatter  them 
still  more  widely  over  the  earth.  Reader  !  they  are  seeds  borne  upon  the  untrammeled  breezes  of  thought 
into  every  open  heart — into  thine,  if  thou  wilt.  Keep  them  there,  and  nurture  them.  Love  them  as  a 
maiden  loves  the  sweet  flowers  that  grow  beneath  h6r  eye, — yea,  love  them  infinitely  more — and  they 
shall  impart  rich  fragrance  to  thy  whole  nature,  and  endow  thee  with  strength,  not  only  in  the  life-giving 
morning,  and  quiet  moonlight  even-time,  but  in  the  heat  and  trial  of  the  day,  when  not  only  a  truth-loving 
but  truth-acting  heart  is  required  of  thee  to  do  nobly  thy  devoir  as  a  man  and  a  Christian. 

Joyfully— oh  joyfully,  let  us  look  forward  to  the  time  when  the  world's  chorus  shall  be  battle-cries 
for  the  right, — when  blood-stained  fields,  with  all  their  pomp,  shall  be  only  heard  of  as  a  tale  of  evil  days 
long  gone, — when  wealth  and  birth  shall  no  more  be  esteemed, — wh6n  love  shall  be  pure,  not  ssnsual, — 
when  all  shall  seek  their  neighbor's  good,  and  the  good  of  all  mankind,  as  they  now  seek  their  own.  Joy- 
fully let  us  look  forward,  and  with  no  craven  heart  speed  the  good  work. 

Philadelphia,  Wthmo.  8th,  1S44. 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE -HEARTED. 


EXCELSIOR. 

BY    HENRY   \V.   LONGFELLOW. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior  I 

His  brow  was  sad,  his  eye  beneath 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath  '. 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior  I 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright : 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan. 
Excelsior  I 

"  Try  not  the  pass  I"  the  old  man  said ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead; 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  I" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied. 
Excelsior  1 

.  "  Oh  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast  I" 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior  '. 

«<  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch- 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  I'' 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good  night: 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height. 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
'J'he  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior  I 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half  buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior. 

Therein  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay; 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star  ! 
Excelsior  I 

A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

BY  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers. 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 


Life  is  real — life  is  earnest — 
And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal, 

lust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow. 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brav» 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  I 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  I 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant  I 
Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  I 

Act — act  in  the  glorious  Present  I 
Heart  within,  and  God  o'er  head  ! 

Lives  of  all  great  men  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footsteps  on  the  sands  of  time. 

Footsteps,  that  perhaps  another 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing. 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Stil  achieving,  still  pursuing. 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


REFORM. 

A  new  year  of  labor  has  begun  in  the  stillness  of 
winter.  In  the  moral  world,  however,  the  fields  are 
ever  w-hite  for  the  harvest,  and  the  reaper  has  only 
to  put  in  the  sickle,  and  do  his  part  towards  the 
great  in-gathei  iiig.  There  are  no  seasons  of  repose 
to  the  reformer.  It  is  ever,  with  him,  seed-time 
and  harvest.  Thoui;h  the  seed  he  scatters  broadcast 
over  the  world,  is  invisible  to  the  unanointcd  eye,  it 
is  still  a  reality — the  only  reality — for  that  seed  is 
truth.  It  becomes  him  ever  to  be  ready,  with  his 
loins  girded,  and  his  seed  in  his  hand,  to  go  abroad, 
scattering  the  unseen,  but  almighty  germs  of  happi- 
ness. IVIuch  discouragement  and  disheartening  will 
he  meet  with  from  a  froward  and  perverse  generation 
— because  they  look  still  for  an  outv\'ard  redemp- 
tion, for  an  earthly  Jlessiah.  The  evils  of  outward 
condition  absorb  their  sight.  They  scoff  at,  and 
belie,  and,  it  may  be,  crucify  him  who  would  draw 
them  from  their  physical  deliverance,  by  the  mighty 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


leading  of  great  principles.  What  they  do  not  see 
with  their  eyes,  they  cannot  receive.  Their  faith  in 
the  unseen  God,  is  but  traditional,  and  not  vital.  He 
is  an  unknown  God  to  them  as  much  as  he  was  to 
the  scoffing  Athenians.  They  do  not  believe  in  the 
soul,  but  in  the  body.  Motion  is  to  them  volition 
—  action  is  thought — meeting-houses  are  religion — 
State-houses  are  government.  They  do  not  look 
behind  the  shows  and  forms  with  which  the  world  is 
filled,  and  discern  the  secret  principles  which  they 
outshadow.  This  it  is  that  makes  the  path  of  the 
reformer  hard.  He  is  misunderstood.  His  method 
is  not  comprehended.  The  connection  between  his 
means  and  his  ends  is  not  perceived — and  men  say, 
he  hath  a  devil  and  is  mad.  But,  still,  be  hath  his 
reward.  The  veil  is  lifted  from  his  eyes,  in  degree 
as  he  is  true  and  worthy,  and  he  sees  the  secrets  of 
Ihe  machinery  in  the  midst  of  whose  operations  he 
lives.  He  discerns  the  causes  of  its  disarrange- 
ments, and  how  it  is  that  a  Divine  contrivance  for  the 
happiness  of  mankind,  has  become  perverted  to  their 
misery  and  wo.  He  sees  that  no  half  measures  are 
of  any  virtue.  False  and  disturbing  principles  have 
been  introduced  which  destroy  the  harmony  of  the 
machine,  and  make  it  produce  results  the  opposite  of 
the  Inventor's  design.  Nothing  can  repair  the  ruin 
but  the  removal  of  the  disturbing  forces,  and  the 
restoration  of  the  true  motive  power.  To  this 
work  he  applies  himself,  and  proclaims  aloud  the 
error  which  has  obtained,  and  the  remedy  for  it.  He 
heeds  not  the  sneers  of  the  faithless,  nor  the  doubts 
of  the  timid  good.  He  knows  that  he  has  an 
omnipotent  engine  in  his  hands,  which,  though  he 
may  not  live  to  see  the  day,  will  rectify  the  disor- 
dered frame  of  things,  and  reduce  the  chaotic  scene 
to  order  and  beauty. 

How  few  there  are  who  truly  perceive  the  omnipo- 
tence of  a  principle  !  How  is  the  true  life  concealed 
by  its  visible  manifestations  !  And  yet  can  there 
be  anything  more  apparent  than  that  principles  of 
Truth  are  all  that  is  conservative  and  recuperative 
in  the  world  ?  And  that  the  dissemination  and  true 
reception  of  these  principles,  are  the  only  means  by 
which  abuses  can  be  reformed  ?  And  yet  men  will 
look  at  Presidents,  and  Congresses,  and  Courts,  for 
the  help  which  they  themselves  alone  can  give 
themselves.  Outward  victory — the  ascendancy  of 
this  or  that  party — the  predomination  of  this  or  that 
sect — is  regarded  as  the  sign  of  reform  and  of  pro- 
gress. And  yet,  how  continually  has  disappointment 
been  written  on  every  page  of  history  that  has 
recorded  such  triumphs  !  As  wise  were  the  fanatic 
reformers  who  destroyed  miracles  of  art  and  of  ar- 
chitecture, thinking  that  thereby  they  exterminated 
Popery — or  the  republican  zealots  who  rifled  the 
sepulchres  of  St.  Denys,  and  scattered  to  the  winds 
the  ashes  of  a  hundred  kings,  as  an  additional  bulwark 
of  freedom.  It  is  by  slow  degrees,  and  difficult  ex- 
perience,   that    the    world    grows    wise — for.  bv    a 


strange  infirmity,  it  is  apt  to  look  upon  the  old  errors 
and  sins  of  the  past,  as  precedents  to  be  followed, 
rather  than  as  warnings  to  be  shunned.  But  it  will 
yet  grow  wise,  and  learn  the  things  that  pertain 
unto  peace. 

This  has  ever  been  the  process  of  reform,  as  far 
as  it  has  yet  effected  the  interests  of  mankind.  A 
single  mind  perceives  a  truth,  which  had  been  before 
hidden  from  men's  eyes — because  they  would  not 
see  it.  He  that  has  perceived  the  truth,  states  it. 
The  mass  of  men  reject  it  and  him.  Perhaps  they 
persecute  him  to  strange  cities,  or  even  unto  death 
itself  Whatever  be  the  form  in  which  men  revenge 
themselves  upon  those  who  disturb  them  in  their 
hereditary  slumbers,  in  the  particular  age  in  which 
he  lives,  he  is  sure  to  eudure  it.  But  almost  from 
the  very  first,  there  are  some  minds  to  which  the 
new  truth  commends  itself,  as  a  newly-discovered 
part  of  their  own  being,  and  these  cluster  around  the 
original  truth-founder.  Perhaps  they  but  imperfectly 
understand  its  meaning  and  the  extent  of  its  bear- 
ing; but  according  to  their  capacity,  they  are  filled 
with  its  power.  From  them  the  circle  widens  and 
widens  till  it  embraces  within  its  ring  a  sea,  or  per- 
haps, an  ocean.  This  was  the  truth  which  Christ 
shadowed  forth  in  the  parables  of  the  grain  of  mus- 
tard seed,  and  of  the  leaven  which  a  woman  took 
and  hid  in  three  measures  of  meal.  And  how  strong 
an  illustration  does  his  own  mission  furnish  of  this 
growth  of  reform!  Even  his  disciples,  during  his 
life,  and  even  after  his  death,  but  imperfectly  com- 
prehended his  doctrine."  And  what  lies  have  been 
extorted  from  it,  from  that  day  to  this  !  What 
streams  of  human  blood  has  the  Prince  of  Peace 
been  made  to  shed  !  Of  what  abominations  has  he 
not  been  made  the  patron  and  the  founder.  The 
world  is  but  little  in  advance  of  his  contemporaries 
in  the  reception  of  the  great  truths  which  he  per- 
ceived and  stated.  But  still  there  are  some  minds 
which  do  begin  to  discern  with  a  perfect  vision  the 
laws  of  the  soul,  and  to  recognize  their  Divine  beau- 
ty and  almighty  power.  The  circumstances  of  the 
times  are  in  many  respects  favorable  to  their  more 
general  reception.  The  great  doctrine  of  the  equal- 
ity and  brotherhood  of  mankind  is  now,  in  this  coun- 
try at  least,  universally  acknowledged,  though  in  but 
too  many  instances  with  lying  lips.  'I'his  great  idea 
is  becoming  more  and  more  practically  familiar  to 
men's  minds.  Gross  physical  persecution  is  almost 
obsolete.  The  right  of  free  inquiry  and  discussion 
is  admitted  by  almost  all  lips,  though  denied  by 
many  hearts,  and  still  obstructed  by  inveterate  pre- 
judice, spiritual  tyranny,  and  sometimes  by  popular 
violence.  The  old  ideas  are  losing  their  hold  upon 
men's  minds,  and  the  institutions  that  stand  for  them 
are  tottering  to  their  foundations.  Men  are  looking 
about  them  for  some  surer  foundation  on  which  to 
build  their  hopes,  and  some  will  be  found  ready  to 
embrnpo  tli^  r,nlv  qrnnnd  of  truth.     A  state  of  moral 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


movement  prevails,  which  is  the  atmosphere  in 
which  reform  takes  deepest  root,  and  sheds  forth  its 
most  vigorous  branches.  These  are  hopeful  days  for 
the  reformer.  Let  him  not  allow  the  appointed  time 
to  pass  by  unimproved. 

And  let  not  his  soul  be  troubled  because  his  pro- 
gress seenns  to  be  slow.  The  generation  in  whose 
ears  he  first  utters  the  unwelcome  message  may  re- 
fuse to  receive  it — but  how  soon  it  melts  away,  and 
another  reigns  in  its  stead  !  At  first,  it  seems  almost 
impossible  to  produce  any  impression  upon  the  un- 
believing multitudes  in  the  high  places  and  in  the 
Ic  w  places.  But  by  the  gradual,  but  mighty,  process 
of  nature,  the  world  is  by  degrees  filled  with  new 
life,  and  the  old  passes  silently  into  the  sepulchre  of 
the  past.  The  mighty  men  who  seemed  to  fill  up 
the  whole  field  of  vision  now,  whither  will  twenty 
years  bear  them  away  ?  Whence  have  come  the 
new  multitudes  which  throng  this  breathing  world, 
that  were  but  just  born  into  time  a  score  of  years 
since  ?  What  a  change  has  come  over  men's  minds 
in  the  quarter  century  that  has  passed  over  the 
world  since  Napoleon  shook  the  scene !  With  new 
minds  come  new  ideas — and  with  new  ideas,  will,  in 
due  time,  come  a  new  world.  What  a  change  will 
twenty  years  make  in  the  aspect  of  the  anti-slavery 
movement,  for  example,  should  chattle  slavery  en^ 
dure  so  long  I  W  here  will  be  Webster,  and  Tyler, 
and  Clay,  and  Calhoun  ?  Where  will  be  the  troops 
of  honorable  and  reverend  asserters  of  the  divinity 
and  inviolability  of  the  peculiar  institution  ?  They 
will  be  all  gone,  and  their  places  will  be  filled  by  a 
race  taught  in  other  schools.  So  with  respect  to 
the  systems  of  violence  with  which  the  earth  is  fil- 
led. 'J'he  pillars  of  these  systems  will  have  fallen- 
Younger  minds,  pervaded  with  new  views,  will  suc- 
ceed them,  and  by  degrees  the  institutions  of  socie- 
ty will  conform  to  the  changed  current  of  men's 
minds.  Mighty  revolutions  will  be  achieved  with- 
out a  blow,  and  freedom  and  happiness  purchased 
without  the  price  of  bloodshed  and  misery.  The 
leaven  will  change  the  mass  of  society  just  as  fast 
and  as  far  as  its  virtue  pervades  it.  Nothing  can 
retard  the  progress  of  this  peaceful  revolution — for 
its  theatre  is  the  unseen  soul.  Its  battles  are  there 
fought  and  won.  It  is  from  thence  that  its  trium- 
phal movements,  which  are  to  be  seen  in  the  out- 
ward world,  are  projected.  In  this  revolution  of 
thoughts  and  opinions,  we  must  all  needs  take  a 
part,  whether  we  will  or  no.  It  rests  with  ourselves 
to  decide  whether  our  part  shall  be  magnanimous  or 
pitiful— whether  our  eflbrts  shall  be  directed  to 
spread  or  retard  the  coming  triumph. 

MY   PHILOSOPHY. 
Bright  things  can  never  die, 

E'en  though  they  fade — 
Beauty  and  minstrelsy 

r)'»athlo«K  were  mad«>. 


What  though  the  summer  day 

Passes  at  eve  away, 

Doth  not  the  moon's  soft  ray 

Silence  the  night?  — 
•'Bright  things  can  never  die," 
Saith  my  philosophy — 
Phoebus,  though  he  pass  by. 

Leaves  us  his  light. 

Kind  words  can  never  die — 

Spoken  in  jest, 
God  knows  how  deep  they  lie 

Stored  in  the  breast; 
Like  childhood's  simple  rhymes, 
Said  o'er  a  thousand  times. 
Aye — in  all  years  and  climes. 

Distant  and  near. 
"  Kind  words  can  never  die," 
Saith  my  philosophy — 
Deep  in  the  soul  they  lie, 

God  knows  how  dear. 

Childhood  can  never  die — 

Wrecks  of  the  past 
Float  op  the  memory 

E'en  to  the  last. 
Many  a  happy  thing — 
Many  a  daisied  Spring, 
Flown  on  'i'ime's  cejiseless  wing, 

Far,  far  away. 
"  Childhood  can  never  die," 
f-^aith  my  philosophy — 
M'recks  of  our  infancy 

Live  on  for  aye. 

Sweet  fancies  never  die — 

They  leave  behind 
Some  fairy  legacy 

Stored  in  the  mind — 
Some  happy  thought  or  dream. 
Pure  as  day's  earliest  beam 
Kissing  the  gentle  stream, 

In  the  lone  glade. 
Yet  though  these  things  pass  by, 
Saith  my  philosophy — 
"  Bright  things  can  never  die, 

E'en  though  they  fade."' 


A  CHRISTIAN    COLONY. 

BY    LYDIA  MARIA     CHILD 

The  highest  gifts  my  soul  has  received,  during  its 
world-pilgrimage,  have  often  been  bestowed  by  those 
who  were  poor,  both  in  money  and  intellectual  cul- 
tivation. Among  these  donors,  I  particularly  re- 
member a  hard-working,  uneducated  mechanic,  from 
Indiana  or  Illinois.  He  told  me  that  he  was  one  of 
tliirfy  or    forty  Nrw  F.nRl.Tnders,  who.  twelve  years 


VOICES    OF     THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


before,  had  gone  out  to  settle  in  the  western  wilder- 
ness. They  were  mostly  neighbors  ;  and  had  been 
drawn  to  unite  together  in  emigration  from  a  gene- 
ral unity  of  opinion  on  various  subjects.  For  some 
years  previous,  they  had  been  in  the  habit  of  meet- 
ing occasionally  at  each  other's  houses,  to  talk  over 
their  duties  to  God  and  man,  in  all  simplicity  of 
heart.  Their  library  was  the  gospel,  their  priest- 
hood the  inward  light.  There  were  then  no  anti- 
slavery  societies ;  but  thus  taught,  and  reverently 
willing  to  learn,  they  had  no  need  of  such  agency, 
to  discover  that  it  was  wicked  to  enslave.  The  ef. 
forts  of  peace  societies  had  reached  this  secluded 
band  only  in  broken  echoes,  and  non-resistance  so- 
cieties had  no  existence.  But  with  the  volume  of 
the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  hearts  open  to  His  influence, 
what  need  had  they  of  preambles  and  resolutions  ? 

Rich  in  spiritual  culture,  this  little  band  started 
for  the  far  West.  Their  inward  homes  were  bloom- 
ing gardens  ;  they  made  their  outward  in  a  wilder- 
ness. They  were  industrious  and  frugal,  and  all 
things  prospered  under  their  hands.  But  soon  wolves 
came  near  the  fold,  in  the  shape  of  reckless,  unprin- 
cipled adventurers  ;  believers  in  force  and  cunning, 
who  acted  according  to  their  creed.  The  colony  of 
practical  Christians  spoke  of  their  depredations  in 
terms  of  gentlest  remonstrance,  and  repaid  them 
with  unvarying  kindness.  They  went  farther — they 
openly  announced,  'You  may  do  us  what  evil  you 
choose,  we  will  return  nothing  but  good.'  Lawyers 
came  into  the  neighborhood  and  offered  their  ser- 
vices to  settle  disputes.  They  answered,  '  We  have 
no  need  of  you.  As  neighbors,  we  receive  you  in 
the  most  friendly  spirit ;  but  for  us,  your  occupation 
has  ceased  to  exist.'  '  What  will  you  do,  if  rascals 
burn  your  barns,  and  steal  your  harvests?'  'We 
will  return  good  for  evil.  We  believe  this  is  the 
highest  truth,  and  therefore  the  best  expediency.' 

When  the  rascals  heard  this,  they  considered  it  a 
marvellous  good  joke,  and  said  and  did  many  pro- 
voking things,  which  to  them  seemed  witty.  Bars 
were  taken  down  in  the  night  and  cows  let  into  the 
cornfields.  The  Christians  repaired  the  damages  as 
well  as  they  could,  put  the  cows  in  the  barn,  and  at 
twilight  drove  them  gently  home,  saying,  '  Neigh- 
bour, your  cows  have  been  in  my  field.  I  have  fed 
them  well  during  the  day,  but  I  would  not  keep 
them  all  night,  lest  the  children  should  suffer  for 
their  milk.' 

If  this  was  fun,  they  who  planned  the  joke  found 
no  heart  to  laugh  at  it.  By  degrees  a  visible  change 
came  over  these  troublesome  neighbors.  They 
ceased  to  cut  off  horses'  tails,  and  break  the  legs  of 
poultry.  Rude  boys  would  say  to  a  younger  bro- 
ther, '  Don't  throw  that  stone  Bill  I  When  I  killed 
the  chicken  last  week,  didn't  they  send  it  to  mother, 
because  they  thought  chicken-broth  would  be  good 
for  poor  Mary  ?  I  should  think  you  would  be  asham- 
ed to  throw  stones  at  their  chickens.'  Thus  was  evil 


overcome  with   good,  till  not  one  was  found  to  do 
them  wilful  injury. 

Years  passed  on,  and  saw  them  thriving  in  world- 
ly substance,  beyond  their  neighbours,  yet  beloved 
by  all.  From  them  the  lawyer  and  the  constable 
obtained  no  fees.  The  sheriff  stammered  and  apolo- 
gized, when  he  took  their  hard  earned  goods  in  pay- 
ment for  the  war-tax.  They  mildly  rep'ied,  ' 'Tis 
a  bad  trade  friend.  Examine  it  in  the  light  of  con- 
science and  see  if  it  be  not  so.'  But  while  they  re- 
fused to  pay  such  fees  and  taxes,  they  were  liberal 
to  a  proverb  in  their  contributions  for  all  useful  and 
benevolent  purposes. 

At  the  end  often  years,  the  public  lands,  which 
they  had  chosen  for  their  farms,  were  advertised  for 
sale  by  auction.  According  to  custom,  those  who 
had  settled  and  cultivated  the  soil,  were  considered 
to  have  a  right  to  bid  it  in  at  the  government  price  ; 
which  at  that  time  was  $1.25  per  acre.  But  the  fe- 
ver of  land-speculation  then  chanced  to  run  unusual- 
ly high.  Adventurers  from  all  parts  of  the  country 
were  flocking  to  the  auction ;  capitalists  in  Balti- 
more, Philadelphia,  New  York  and  Boston,  were 
sending  agents  to  buy  up  western  lands.  No  one 
supposed  that  custom,  or  equity,  would  be  regarded. 
The  first  day's  sale  showed  that  speculation  ran  to 
the  verge  of  insanity.  Land  was  eagerly  bought  in 
at  seventeen,  twenty-five  and  thirty  dollars  an  acre. 
The  Christian  colony  had  small  hope  of  retaining 
their  farms.  As  first  settlers,  they  had  chosen  the 
best  land  ;  and  persevering  industry  had  brought  it 
into  the  highest  cultivation.  Its  market  value  was 
much  greater  than  the  acres  already  sold  at  exorbi- 
tant prices.  In  view  of  those  facts,  they  had  prepar- 
ed their  minds  for  another  remove  into  the  wilder- 
nees,  perhaps  to  be  again  ejected  by  a  similar  pro- 
cess. But  the  morning  their  lot  was  offered  for  sale, 
they  observed,  with  grateful  surprise,  that  their 
neighbours  were  everywhere  busy  among  the  crowd, 
begging  and  expostulating  : — '  Don't  bid  on  thtse 
lands  !  These  men  have  been  working  hard  on  them 
for  ten  years.  During  all  that  time  they  never  did 
harm  to  man  or  brute.  They  are  always  ready  to 
do  good  for  evil.  They  are  a  blessing  to  any  neigh- 
bourhood. It  would  be  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  bid  on 
their  lands.  Let  them  goat  the  government  price. 

The  sale  come  on  ;  the  cultivators  of  the  soil  of- 
fered $  1 .25,  intending  to  bid  higher  if  necessary.  But 
among  all  that  crowd  of  selfish,  reckless  speculators, 
7iot  one  bid  over  them!  Without  an  opposing  voice, 
the  fair  acres  returned  to  them !  I  do  not  know  a 
more  remarkable  instance  of  evil  overcome  with 
good.  The  wisest  political  economy  lies  folded  up 
in  the  maxims  of  Christ. 

With  delighted  reverence,  I  listened  to  this  unlet- 
tered backwoodsman,  as  he  explained  his  philosophy 
of  universal  love.  '  What  would  you  do,'  said  I,  'if 
an  idle,  thieving  vagabond  came  among  you,  resolv- 
ed  to   stay,  but  determined  not   to  work"     'We 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


would  give  him  food  when  hungry,  shelter  him 
when  colli,  and  always  treat  him  as  a  brother.' 
«  Would  not  this  process  attract  such  characters  ? 
How  would  you  avoid  being  overrun  by  them  ?' 
<  Such  characters  would  eilher  reform  or  not  remain 
with  us.  We  should  never  speak  an  angry  word,  or 
refuse  to  minister  to  their  necessities  ;  but  we  should 
invariably  regard  them  with  the  deepest  sadness,  as 
we  would  a  guilty,  but  beloved  son.  This  is  harder 
for  the  human  soul  to  bear,  than  whips  or  prisons. 
They  could  not  stand  it ;  I  am  sure  they  could  not. 
It  would  either  melt  them,  or  drive  them  away.  In 
nine  cases  out  of  ten,  I  believe  it  would  melt 
them.' 

I  felt  rebuked  for  my  want  of  faith,  and  conse. 
quent  shallowness  of  insight.  That  hard-handed  la- 
bourer brought  greater  riches  to  my  soul  than  an 
Eastern  merchant  laden  with  pearls.  Again  I  re- 
peat, money  is  not  wealth. — Letters  from  New 
York. 

The  following  beautiful  poem  is  from  the  December 
number  of  Blackwood's  Magazine  It  is  a  noble  pic- 
ture of  that  sublime  old  man,  who,  sick,  poor,  blind, 
and  abandoned  of  friends,  still  held  fast  his  heroic 
integrity,  rebuking  with  his  unbending  republican- 
ism the  treachery,  and  cowardice,  and  servility  of  his 
old  associates.  He  had  outlived  the  hopes  and  bea- 
tific visions  of  his  youth  ;  he  had  seen  the  loud- 
mouthed advocates  of  liberty  throwing  down  a 
nation's  freedom  at  the  feet  of  the  shameless,  de- 
bauched, and  unprincipled  Charles  the  Second, 
crouching  to  the  harlot-thronged  court  of  the  tyrant, 
and  forswearing  at  once  their  religion  and  their 
republicanism.  The  executioner's  axe  had  been 
busy  among  his  friends.  Cromwell's  ashes  had  been 
dragged  from  their  resting  place,  for  even  in  death 
the  effeminate  tyrant  hated  and  feared  the  conqueror 
of  Naseby  and  Marston  Moor.  Vane  and  Hamp. 
den  slept  in  their  bloody  graves.  He  was  left  alone 
in  age,  and  penury,  and  blindness;  oppressed  with 
the  knowledge  that  all  his  pure  heart  and  free  soul 
abhorred,  had  returned  upon  his  beloved  country. 
Yet  the  spirit  of  the  stern,  old  republican  remained 
to  the  last  unbroken,  realizing  the  truth  of  the  lan- 
guage of  his  own  Samson  Agonistes. 

"  Patit-iice  is  ihe  exercise 

Of  sainu,  iho  trial  of  llieir  fui  titude, 
Makin)!^  tlK-iii  eacli  tlitir  own  deliverer 
And  vielor  over  all 
'1  hat  tyranny  or  fortune  can  inflict." 

True,  the  overwhelming  curse  had  gone  over  his 
country.  Harlotry  and  atheism  sat  in  the  high 
places,  and  "  the  caresses  of  wantons  and  the  jest  of 
buffoons  regulated  the  measures  of  the  government, 
which  had  just  ability  enough  to  deceive,  just  reli- 
gion enough  to  persecute."  But  while  Milton  mourn- 
ed over  this  disastrous  change,  no  self-reproach 
mingled  with  his  sorrow.  To  the  last  he  had  striven 
against  the  ojipressor-     AVho,  that  has  read  his  pow- 


erful and  thrilling  appeal  to  his  countrymen,  when 
they  were  on  the  eve  of  welcoming  back  the  ty- 
ranny and  misrule  which  at  the  expense  of  so  much 
blood  and  treasure  had  been  thrown  off,  can  ever 
forget  it  ?  How  nobly  does  liberty  speak  through 
him.  "  If,"  said  he,  "  ye  welcome  back  a  monar- 
chy, it  will  be  the  triumph  of  all  tyrants  hereafter, 
over  any  people  who  shall  resist  oppression,  and  their 
song  shall  then  be  to  others,  '  How  sped  the  rebel-  _ 
lious  English,'  but  to  our  posterity,  'How  sped  the 
rebels,  your  fathers.' "  How  solemnly  awful  is  his 
closing  paragraph  :  "  What  I  have  spoken,  is  the 
language  of  that  which  is  not  called  amiss,  'The 
good  old  cause.'  If  it  seem  strange  to  any,  it  will 
not  seem  more  strange  I  hope,  than  convincing,  to 
backsliders.  This  much  I  should  have  said,  though 
I  were  sure  I  should  have  spoken  only  to  trees  and 
stones ;  and  had  none  to  cry  to  but  with  the  prophet, 

0  earth,  earth,  earth  !  to  tell  the  very  soil  itself 
what  its  perverse  inhabitants  are  deaf  to ;  nay, 
though  what  I  have  spoken  should  prove  (which 
Thou  suffer  not,  who  didst  create  mankind  free  !  nor 
Thou  next,  who  didst  redeem  us  from  being  servants 
of  men  !)  to  be  the  last  words  of  our  expiring  liber- 
ty." It  was  the  consciousness  of  having  done  all  in  his 
power  to  save  his  countrymen  from  the  guilt  and 
folly  into  which  they  had  madly  plunged,  the  answer 
of  a  good  conscience,  which  sustained  him  in  his  old 
age  and  destitution. — Joshua  Leavitt. 

BLIND    OLD   MILTON. 

BY  WILLIAM  E.  ATTOUN. 

Place  me,  once  more,  my  daughter,  where  the  sun 
May  shine  upon  my  old  and  time-worn  head, 

For  the  last  time,  perchance.     My  race  is  run; 
And  soon  amidst  the  ever-silent  dead 

1  must  repose,  it  may  be,  half  forgot. 

Yes  !  I  have  broke  the  hard  and  bitter  bread 
For  many  a  year,  with  those  who  trembled  not 

To  buckle  on  their  armor  for  the  fight. 
And  set  themselves  against  the  tv  rant's  lot ; 

And  I  have  never  bowed  me  to  his  might, 
Nor  knelt  before  him — for  I  bear  within 

My  heart  the  sternest  consciousness  of  right. 
And  that  perpetual  hate  of  gilded  sin 

Which  made  me  what  I  am  ;  and  though  the  stain 
Of  poverty  be  on  me,  yet  I  win 

More  honor  by  it  than  the  blinded  train 
Who  hug  their  willing  servitude,  and  bow 

Unto  the  weakest  and  the  most  profane. 
Therefore,  with  tin 01  cumbered  soul  1  go 

Before  ihe  footstool  of  my  Maker,  where 
I  hope  to  stand  us  undebased  as  now  ! 

Child  !  is  the  sun  abroad  ?     I  feel  my  hair 
Borne  up  and  wafted  by  the  gentle  wind  ; 

1  feel  the  odors  that  perfume  the  air. 
And  hear  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  behind. 

Within  my  heart  1  picture  them,  and  then 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED 


I  almost  can  forget  that  I  am  blind, 

And  old,  and  hated  by  my  fellow  men. 
Yet  would  I  fain  once  more  behold  the  grace 

Of  nature  ere  I  die,  and  gaze  again 
Upon  her  living  and  rejoicing  face  ; 

Fain  would  I  see  thy  countenance,  my  child, 
My  comforter  !  I  feel  thy  dear  embrace, 

I  hear  thy  voice  so  musical  and  mild, 
The  patient,  sole  interpreter,  by  whom 

So  many  years  of  sadness  are  beguiled  ; 
For  it  hath  made  my  small  and  scanty  room 

Peopled  w^ith  glowing  visions  of  the  past. 
But  I  will  calmly  bend  me  to  my  doom. 

And  wait  the  hour  which  is  approaching  fast, 
When  triple  light  shall  stream  upon  mine  eyes. 

And  Heaven  itself  be  opened  up  at  last, 
To  him  who  dared  foretell  its  mysteries. 

I  have  had  visions  in  this  drear  eclipse 
Of  outward  consciousness,  and  clomb  the  skies, 

Striving  to  utter  with  my  earthly  lips 
What  the  diviner  soul  had  half  divined, 

Even  as  the  saint  in  his  Apocalypse 
Who  saw  the  inmost  glory,  where  enshrined. 

Sat  He  who  fashioned  glory.     This  hath  driven 
A  I!  outward  strife  and  tumult  from  my  mind, 

And  humbled  me  until  I  have  forgiven 
My  bitter  enemies,  and  only  seek 

To  find  the  straight  and  narrow  path  to  heaven. 

Yet  I  am  weak — 0,  how  entirely  weak, 

For. one  who  may  not  love  or  suffer  more  ! 
Sometimes  unbidden  tears  will  wet  my  cheek, 

And  my  heart  bound  as  keenly  as  of  yore, 
Reponsive  to  a  voice,  now  hushed  to  rest, 

Which  made  the  beautiful  Italian  shore 
With  all  its  pomp  of  summer  vineyards  dressed. 

An  Eden  and  a  Paradise  to  me. 
Do  the  sweet  breezes  from  the  balmy  West 

Still  murmur  through  thy  groves,  Parthenope, 
In  search  of  odors  from  the  orange  bowers  ? 

Still  on  thy  slopes  of  verdure  does  the  bee 
Cull  her  rare  honey  from  the  virgin  flowers  ? 

And  Philomel  her  plaintiff  chant  prolong, 
'Neath  skies  more  calm  and  more  serene  than  ours. 

Making  the  summer  one  perpetual  song  ? 
Art  thou  the  same  as  when  in  manhood's  pride 

I  walked  in  joy  thy  grassy  meads  among, 
With  that  fair,  youthful  vision  by  njy  side, 

In  whose  bright  eyes  I  looked — and  not  in  vain  ? 
0,  my  adored  angel!  O,  my  bride  ! 

Despite  of  years,  and  wo,  and  want,  and  pain. 
My  soul  yearns  back  toward  thee,  and  I  seem 

To  wander  with  thee,  hand  in  hand,  again. 
By  the  bright  margin  of  that  flowing  stream. 

I  hear  again  thy  voice,  more  silver  sweet 
Than  fancied  music  floating  in  a  dream. 

Possess  my  being;  from  afar  I  greet 
The  waving  of  thy  garments  in  the  glade. 

And  the  light  rustling  of  thy  fairy  feet — 
What  time  as  one  half  eager,  half  afraid, 


Love's  burning  secret  faltered  on  my  tongue. 
And  tremulous  looks  and  broken  words  betrayed 

'1  he  secret  of  the  heart  from  whence  they  sprung. 
Ah  me !  the  earth  that  rendered  thee  to  heaven 

Gave  up  an  angel  beautiful  and  young  ; 
Spotless  and  pure  as  snow  when  freshly  driven; 

A  bright  Aurora  for  the  starry  sphere 
Where  all  is  love,  and  even  life  forgiven. 

Bride  of  immortal  beauty — ever  dear  I 
Dost  thou  await  me  in  thy  blest  abode  ! — 

While  I,  Tithonus-like,  must  linger  here. 
And  count  each  step  along  the  rugged  road, 

A  phantom,  loitering  to  a  long  made  grave, 
And  eager  to  lay  down  my  weary  load  I 

I,  that  was  fancy's  lord,  am  fancy's  slave — 
Like  the  low  murmurs  of  the  Indian  shell 

Ta'en  from  its  coral  bed  beneath  the  wave, 
Which,  unforgetful  of  the  ocean's  swell, 

Retains  within  its  mystic  urn  the  hum 
Heard  in  the  sea-grots,  where  the  Nereids  dwell — 

Old  thoughts  that  haimt  me,  unawares  they  come 
Between  me  and  my  rest,  nor  can  I  make 

Those  aged  visitors  of  sorrow  dumb. 

0,  yet  awhile,  my  feeble  soul  awake  ! 

Nor  wander  back  with  sullen  steps  again  I  — 
For  neither  pleasant  pastime  canst  thou  take 

In  such  a  journey,  nor  endure  the  pain. 
The  phantoms  of  the  past  are  dead  for  thee  ; 

So  let  them  ever  uninvoked  remain, 
And  be  thou  calm  till  Jeath shall  set  thee  free. 

Thy  flowers  of  hope  expanded  long  ago, 
Long  since  their  blossoms  withered  on  the  tree ; 

No  second  spring  can  come  to  make  them  blow, 
But  in  the  silent  winter  of  the  grave 

They  lie  with  blighted  love  and  buried  wo. 

I  did  not  waste  the  gifts  which  nature  gave, 

Nor  slothful  lay  in  the  Circean  bower  ; 
Nor  did  I  yield  myself  the  willing  slave 

Of  lust  for  pride,  for  riches,  or  for  power. 
No  I  in  my  heart  a  nobler  spirit  dwelt ; 

For  constant  was  my  faith  in  manhood's  dower ; 
Man — made  in  God's  own  image — and  I  felt 

How  of  our  own  accord  we  courted  shame, 
Until  to  idols  like  ourselves  we  knelt. 

And  so  renounced  the  great  and  glorious  claim 
Of  freedom,  our  immortal  heritage. 

I  saw  how  bigotry,  with  spiteful  aim. 
Smote  at  the  searching  eyesight  of  the  sage, 

How  Error  stole  behind  the  steps  of  Truth, 
And  cast  delusion  on  the  sacred  page. 

So,  as  a  champion,  even  in  early  youth 
I  waged  my  battle  with  a  purpose  keen  ; 

Nor  feared  the  hand  of  Terror,  nor  the  tooth 
Of  serpent  Jealousy.     And  I  have  been 

With  starry  Galileo  in  his  cell, 
That  wise  magician  with  the  brow  serene. 

Who  fathomed  space  ;  and  I  have  seen  him  tell 
The  wonders  of  the  planetary  sphere, 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


And  trace  the  ramparts  of  Heaven's  citadel 
On  the  cold  flag-stones  of  his  dungeon  drear. 

And  I  have  walked  with  Hampden  and  with  Vane, 
Names  once  so  gracious  to  an  English  ear 

In  days  that  never  may  return  again. 
My  voice,  though  not  the  hudfst,  hath  been  heard 

Whenever  freedom  raised  her  cry  oj  pain, 
And  the  faint  effort  of  the  humble  bard 

Hath  roused  up  thousands  from  their  lethargy, 
To  speak  in  words  of  thunder.     What  reward 

Was  mine  or  theirs?     It  matters  not;  for  I 
Am  but  a  leaf  cast  on  the  whirling  tide, 

Without  a  hope  or  wish,  except  to  die. 
But  truth,  asserted  once,  must  still  abide. 

Unquenchable,  as  are  those  fiery  springs 
Which  d  ly  and  night  gosh  from  the  mountain  side. 

Perpetual  meteors,  girt  with  lambent  wings. 
Which  the  wild  tempest  tosses  to  and  fro. 

But  cannot  conquer  with  the  force  it  brings. 

Yet  I,  who  ever  felt  another's  wo 

More  keenly  than  my  own  untold  distress  ; 
I,  who  have  battled  with  the  common  foe. 

And  broke  for  years  the  bread  of  bitterness  ; 
Who  never  yet  abandoned  or  betrayed 

The  trust  vouchsafed  me,  nor  have  ceased  to  bless, 
Am  left  alone  to  wither  in  the  shade, 

A  weik  old  man,  deserted  by  his  kind — 
Whom  none  will  comfort  in  his  age,  nor  aid  ! 

0,  let  me  not  repine !    A  quiet  mind. 

Conscious  and  upright,  needs  no  other  stay  ; 
Nor  can  I  grieve  for  what  I  leave  behind, 

In  the  rich  promise  of  eternal  day. 
Henceforth  to  me  the  world  is  dead  and  gone, 

Its  thorns  unfelt,  its  roses  castaway, 
And  the  old  pilgrim,  weary  and  alone, 

Bowed  down  with  travel,  at  his  Master's  gate 
Now  sits,  his  task  of  life-long  labor  done, 

Thankful  for  rest,  although  it  comes  so  late, 
After  sore  journey  through  this  world  of  sin. 

In  hope  and  prayer,  and  wistfulness  to  wait. 
Until  the  door  shall  ope  and  let  him  in. 


FOOT-PRINTS   OF    ANGELS. 

BY  HENKT    W.    LONGFELEOW. 

It  was  Sunday  morning  ;  and  the  church  bells 
bells  were  ringing  together.  From  all  the  neigh- 
bouring villages  came  the  solemn,  joyful  sounds, 
floating  through  the  sunny  air,  mellow  and  faint  and 
low,  — all  mingling  into  one  harmonious  chime,  like 
the  sound  of  some  distant  organ  in  heaven.  Anon 
they  ceased;  and  the  woods,  and  the  clouds,  and  the 
whole  village,  and  the  very  air  itself  seemed  to  pray, 
60  silent  was  it  everywhere. 

The  venerable  old  men,  — high  priests  and  patri- 
archs were  they  in  the  land, — went  up  the  pulpit 


stairs,  as  i\Ioscs  and  Aaron  went  up  Mount  Hor,  in 
the  sight  of  all  the  congregation,  — for  the  pulpit 
stairs  were  in  front  and  very  high. 

Paul  Femming  will  never  forget  the  sermon  he 
heard  that  day, — no.  not  even  if  he  should  live  to  be  as 
old  as  he  who  preached  it.  The  text  was,  '  I  know 
that  my  Redeemer  liveth.'  It  was  meant  to  console 
the  pious,  poor  widow,  who  sat  right  before  him  at 
the  foot  of  the  pulpit  stairs,  all  in  black,  and  her  heart 
breaking.  He  said  nothing  of  the  terrors  of  death,  nor 
of  the  gloom  of  the  narrow  house,  but,  looking  beyond 
these  things,  as  mere  circumstances  to  which  the 
imagination  mainly  gives  importance,  he  told  his 
hearers  of  the  innocence  of  childhood  upon  earth, 
and  the  holiness  of  childhood  in  heaven,  and  how  the 
beautiful  Lord  Jesus  was  once  a  little  child,  and 
now  in  heaven  the  spirits  of  little  children  walked 
with  him,  and  gathered  flowers  in  the  fields  of  Para- 
dise. Good  old  man  !  In  behalf  of  humanity,  I 
thank  thee  for  these  benignant  words  I  And,  still 
more  than  I,  the  bereaved  mother  thanked  thee,  and 
from  that  hour,  though  she  wept  in  secret  for  her 
child,  yet. 

"  She  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 
Anil  she  asked  liim  not  again." 

After  the  sermon,  Paul  Flemming  walked  forth 
alone  into  the  churchyard.  There  was  no  one  there, 
save  a  little  boy,  who  was  fishing  with  a  pin  hook  in 
a  grave  half  full  of  water.  But  a  few  moments  af- 
terward, through  the  arched  gateway  under  the  bel- 
fry, came  a  funeral  procession.  At  its  head  walk- 
ed a  priest  in  white  surplice,  chanting.  Peasants, 
old  and  young,  followed  him,  with  burning  tapers  in 
their  hands.  A  young  girl  carried  in  her  arms  a 
dead  child,  wrapped  in  its  little  winding  sheet.  The 
grave  ^vas  close  under  the  wall,  by  the  church  door. 
A  vase  of  holy  water  stood  beside  it.  The  sexton 
took  the  child  from  the  girl's  arms,  and  put  it  into 
a  coffin ;  and,  as  he  placed  it  in  the  grave,  the  girl 
held  over  it  a  cross,  Wreathed  with  roses,  and  the 
priest  and  peasants  sang  a  funeral  hymn.  When 
this  was  over,  the  priest  sprinkled  the  grave  and 
the  crowd  with  holy  water  ;  And  then  they  all  went 
into  the  church,  each  one  stopping  as  he  passed  the 
grave  to  throw  a  handful  of  earth  into  it,  and  sprin- 
kle it  with  holy  water. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  the  voice  of  the  priest 
was  heard  saying  mass  in  the  church,  and  Flem- 
ming saw  the  toothless  old  sexton  treading  the  fresh 
earth  into  the  grave  of  the  little  child,  with  his 
clouted  shoes.  He  approached  him,  and  asked  the 
age  of  the  deceased.  The  sexton  leaned  a  moment 
on  his  spade,  and  shrugging  his   shoulders    replied  ; 

'  Only  an  hour  or  two.  It  was  born  in  the  night, 
and  died  early  this  morning?' 

'  A  brief  existence,'  said  Flemming.  '  The  child 
seems  to  have  been  born  only  to  be  buried,  and  have 
its  name  recorded  on  a  wooden  tombstone.' 


VOICES      OF     THE     T  R  U  E  -  II  E  A  11 T  E  D  . 


The  sexton  went  on  with  his  work  and  made  no 
reply.  Flemrning  still  lingered  among  the  graves, 
gazing  with  wonder  at  the  strange  devices,  by  which 
man  has  rendered  death  horrible  and  the  grave  loath- 
some. 

In  the  Temple  of  Juno  at  Elis,  Sleep  and  his 
twin-brother  Death  were  represented  as  children 
reposing  in  the  arms  of  Night.  On  various  funeral 
monuments  of  the  ancients  the  Genius  of  Death  is 
sculptured  as  a  beautiful  youth,  leaning  on  an  invert- 
ed torch,  in  the  attitude  of  repose,  his  wings  folded 
and  his  feet  crossed.  In  such  peaceful  and  attrac- 
tive forms,  did  the  imagination  of  ancient  poets 
and  sculptors  represent  death.  And  these  were  men 
in  whose  souls  the  religion  of  Nature  was  like  the 
light  of  stars,  beautiful,  but  faint  and  cold  I— 
Strange.,  that  in  later  days,  this  angel  of  God,  which 
leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand  into  the  '  Land  of  the 
great  departed,  into  the  silent  Land,'  should  have 
been  transformed  into  a  monstrous  and  terrific  thing! 
Such  is  the  spectral  rider  on  the  white  horse — such 
the  ghastly  skeleton  with  scythe  and  hour  glass  — 
the  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death ! 

One  of  the  most  popular  themes  of  poetry  and 
painting  in  the  Middle  ages,  and  continuing  down 
even  into  modern  times,  was  the  Dance  of  Death. 
In  almost  all  languages  is  it  written, — the  apparition 
of  the  grim  spectre,  putting  a  sudden  stop  to  all  bu- 
siness, and  leading  men  away  into  the  <  remarkable 
retirement'  of  the  grave.  It  is  written  in  an  ancient 
Spanish  Poem,  and  painted  on  a  wooden  bridge  in 
Switzerland.  The  designs  of  Holbein  are  well 
known.  The  most  striking  among  them  is  that, 
where,  from  a  group  of  children  sitting  round  a  cot- 
tage hearth,  Death  has  taken  one  by  the  hand,  and 
is  leading  it  out  of  the  door.  Quietly  and  unresist- 
ing goes  the  little  child,  and  in  its  countenance  no 
grief,  but  wonder  only  ;  while  the  other  children  are 
weeping  and  stretching  forth  their  hands  in  vain  to- 
wards their  departing  brother.  A  beautiful  design 
it  is,  in  all  save  the  skeleton.  An  angel  had 
been  better,  with  folded  wings,  and  torch  in- 
verted ! 

And  now  the  sun  was  growing  high  and  warm.  A 
little  chapel,  v\'hose  door  stood  open,  seemed  to  in- 
vite Flemming  to  enter  and  enjoy  the  grateful  cool- 
ness. He  went  in.  There  was  no  one  there.  The 
walls  were  covered  with  paintings  and  sculpture  of  the 
rudest  kind,  and  with  a  few  funeral  tablets.  There 
was  nothing  there  to  move  the  heart  to  devotion 
but  in  that  hour  the  heart  of  Flemming  was 
weak, — weak  as  a  child's.  He  bowed  his  stubborn 
knees,  and  wept.  And  oh  !  how  many  disappointed 
hopes,  how  many  bitter  recollections,  how  much  of 
wounded  pride,  and  unrequited  love,  were  in  those 
tears,  through  which  he  read  on  a  marble  tablet  in 
the  chapel  wall  opposite,  this  singular  inscrip- 
tion : 

'Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.      It  comes  not 
2 


back  again.  Wisely  improve  the  Present.  It  is  thine. 
Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future,  without  foar, 
and  with  a  manly  heart.' 

It  seemed  to  him,  as  if  the  unknown  tenant  of  that 
grave  had  opened  his  lips  of  dust,  and  spoken  to  him 
the  words  of  consolation,  which  his  soul  needed,  and 
which  no  friend  had  yet  spoken.  In  a  moment  the 
anguish  of  his  thoughts  was  still.  The  stone  was 
rolled  away  from  the  door  of  his  heart ;  death  was 
no  longer  there,  but  an  angel  clothed  in  white.  He 
stood  up,  and  his  eyes  were  no  more  bleared  with 
tears  ;  and,  looking  into  the  bright,  morning  heaven, 
he  said  : 

'  I  will  be  strong  !' 

Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  with  painful 
longings  to  behold  once  more  the  faces  of  their  de- 
parted friends ;  and  as  they  gaze  upon  them,  lying 
there  so  peacefully  with  the  semblance  that  they 
wore  on  earth,  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven  touches 
them,  and  the  features  crumble  and  fall  together, 
and  are  but  dust.  So  did  his  soul  then  descend  for  the 
last  time  into  the  great  tomb  of  the  Past,  with  pain- 
ful longings  to  behold  once  more  the  dear  faces  of 
those  he  had  loved  ;  and  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven 
touched  them,  and  they  would  not  stay,  but  crumbled 
away  and  perished  as  he  gazed.  They,  too,  were 
dust.  And  thus,  far-sounding,  he  heard  the  great 
gate  of  the  Past  shut  behind  him  as  the  Divine  Poet 
did  the  gate  of  Paradise,  when  the  angel  pointed  him 
the  way  up  the  Holy  Mountain  ;  and  to  him  like- 
wise was  it  forbidden  to  look  back. 

In  the  life  of  every  man,  there  are  sudden  transi- 
tions of  feeling,  which  seem  almost  miraculous.  At 
once  as  if  some  magician  had  touched  the  heavens  and 
the  earth,  the  dark  clouds  melt  into  the  air,  the  wind 
falls,  and  serenity  succeeds  the  storm.  The  causes 
which  produce  these  sudden  changes  may  have  been 
long  at  work  within  us,  but  the  changes  themselves 
are  instantaneous,  and  apparently  without  sufficient 
cause.  It  was  so  with  Flemming  ;  and  from  that 
hour  forth  he  resolved,  that  he  would  no  longer  veer 
with  every  shifting  wind  of  circumstance  ;  no  longer 
be  a  child's  plaything  in  the  hands  of  Fate,  which 
we  ourselves  do  make  or  mar.  He  resolved  hence 
forward  not  to  lean  on  others  ;  but  to  walk  self-con- 
fident and  self-possessed  ;  no  longer  to  waste  his 
years  in  vain  regrets,  nor  wait  the  fulfillment  of 
boundless  hopes  and  indiscreet  desires  ;  but  to  live 
in  the  Present  wisely,  alike  forgetful  of  the  past, 
and  careless  of  what  the  mysterious  Future  might 
bring.  And  from  that  moment  he  was  calm,  and 
strong;  he  was  reconciled  with  himself!  His 
thoughts  turned  to  his  distant  home  beyond  the  sea. 
\n  indescribable,  sweet  feeling  rose  within 
him. 

'Thither  I  will  turn  my  wandering  foostetps,'said 
he ;  '  and  be  a  man  among  men,  and  no  longer  a 
dreamer  among  shadows.  Henceforth  be  rr^ine  a  life 
of  action   and  reality !      I    will    work   in   my   own 


10 


V  O  1  C  ]:  S   OF   T  II  ]■:   T  R  U  E  -  H  E  A  R  T  E  D  . 


sphere,  nor  wish  it  other  than  it  is.  This  alone  is 
health  and  happiness.     This  alone  is  life ; 

'  LilV  Oiiit  sliiill  semi 

A  cliulliiipt' lo  Its  riid,  ^^ 

And  when  it  conns,  say,  Welconif,  fiicnd  . 

Why  have  I  not  made  these  sage  reflections,  this  wise 
resolve,  sooner  ?  Can  such  a  simple  result  spring 
only  from  the  long  and  intricate  process  of  e.vpe- 
rience?  Alas!  it  is  not  till  Time,  with  reck- 
less hand,  has  torn  out  half  the  leaves  from  the 
Book  of  Human  Life,  to  light  the  fires  of  passion 
with  from  day  today,  that  Man  begins  to  see,  that 
the  leaves  which  remain  are  few  in  number,  and  to 
remember,  faintly  at  first,  and  then  more  clearly, 
that,  upon  the  earlier  pages  of  that  book  was  writ- 
ten a  story  of  happy  innocence,  which  he  would  fain 
read  over  again.  Then  come  listless  irresolution, 
and  the  inevitable  inaction  of  despair ;  or  else  the 
firm  resolve  to  record  upon  the  leaves  that  still  re- 
main, a  more  noble  history  than  the  child's  story, 
with  which  the  book  heg^n.'—Hijpenon. 

MY   SOUL   IS  FREE. 

Disguise  !  and  coward  fear  !  away  : 
My  soul  is  free  ;   and  loves  the  day, 
The  day  who  veils  her  blushes  bright. 
And  wails  in  tears  the  gloomy  night ; 
So  bleeds  my  breast  by  sorrow  torn , 
When'ere  degenerate  manhood's  form 
Bows  slave-like  to  a  tyrant's  power, 
Lost  to  himself,  and  heaven's  high  dower. 

Away  with  chains  '.  my  soul  is  free, 
And  joyeth  as  the  summer  sea. 
When  love's  low  tones  around  it  play. 
Or  friendship  gilds  the  closing  day. 
And  as  the  pitying  sea  doth  moan. 
So  swells  my  heart  at  sorrow's  tone  ; 
So  echoes  back  each  murmur'd  sigh, 
Like  ocean,  when  the  storm  is  nigh. 

And  as  the  tossing  waves  loud  roar 
With  deafening  thunders  on  the  shore  ; 
So  may  my  soul  rise  in  her  might. 
And  sternly  battle  for  the  right. 
Oh  !  when  the  righteous  flight  is  done, 
And  calmly  sinks  the  weary  sun, 
Still  shall  my  song  triumphant  be  ; 
Rejoice  !   rejoice  !  my    soul  is  free  ! 

DEMOCRACY. 

BY    JOHN    G.    ■WHITTIER. 

"  All  thinpt  whannever  ye  would  that  mm  ihoiild  do  to  j,m, 
do  ye  even  to  lo  l\n-m.''-Mall/iew  vii.  12. 

Spirit  of  Truth,  and  Love,  and  Light  ! 

The  foe  of  Wrong,  and  Hate,  and  Fraud  '. 
Of  all  wliich  pains  the  holy  sight. 

Or  wounds  the  generous  car  of  God  ! 


Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise. 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown  ; 
And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred — though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride  ; 

And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time  I 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 

Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood. 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 

For  through  the  mists  which  darken  there 
I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer  1 

The  generous  feeling  pure  and  warm. 
Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine — 

The  pitying  heart — the  helping  arm — 
The  prompt,  self-sacrifice — are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  cords  of  caste  and  birth  I 
How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  I 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true. 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 
As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  on  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  see'st  a  Man 

In  prince  or  peasant — slave  or  lord — 
Pale  priest  or  sw'arthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or  name. 
Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 

Through  poverty  and  squallid  shame. 
Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim. 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took. 

And  veiled  his  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  cold  and  shallow  fount 

Of  vain  philosphy  thou  art ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrilled,  warmed  by  turns  the  lisfner's  heart. 

Ill  holy  words  which  cannot  die. 

In  thoughts  which  angels  lean'd  to  know, 
Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  wo. 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


11 


That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Gallilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain  side, 
It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchvvard  o'er  this  land 

I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs  ; 
And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 
Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring  ; 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 

A  freeman's  dearest  offering  :  — 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 


THE  OBJECT  OF  LIFE. 

BY  JOHN  TODD. 

How  many  beautiful  visions  pass  before  the  mind 
in  a  single  day,  when  the  reins  are  thrown  loose,  and 
fancy  feels  no  restraints  !  How  curious,  interesting 
and  instructive  would  be  the  history  of  the  work- 
ings of  a  single  mind  for  a  day  I  How  many  ima- 
ginary joys,  how  many  airy  castles,  pass  before  it, 
which  a  single  jostle  of  this  rough  world  at  once 
destroys  !  Who  is  there  of  my  readers  who  has  not 
imagined  a  summer  fairer  than  ever  bloomed, — 
scenery  in  nature  more  perfect  than  was  ever  com- 
bined by  the  pencil, — abodes  more  beautiful  than 
were  ever  reared, — honors  more  distinguished  than 
were  ever  bestowed, — homes  more  peaceful  than 
were  ever  enjoyed, — companions  more  angelic  than 
ever  walked  this  earth, — and  bliss  more  complete, 
and  joys  more  thrilling  than  were  ever  allotted  to 
man  ?  You  may  call  these  the  dreams  of  imagin- 
ation, but  they  are  common  to  the  student.  To  the 
man  who  lives  for  this  world  alone,  these  visions  of 
bliss,  poor  as  they  are,  are  all  that  ever  come.  But 
good  men  have  their  anticipations — not  the  paintings 
of  fancy,  but  the  realities  which  faith  discovers. 
Good  men  have  the  most  vivid  conceptions.  Wit- 
ness those  of  old.  As  they  look  down  the  vale  of 
time,  they  see  a  star  arise, — the  everlasting  hills  do 
bow,  the  valleys  are  raised,  and  the  moon  puts  on 
the  brightness  of  the  sun.  The  deserts  and  the  dry 
places  gush  with  waters.  Nature  pauses.  The  ser- 
pent forgets  his  fangs  ;  the  lion  and  the  lamb  sleep 
side  by  side,  and  the  hand  of  the  child  is  in  the  mane 
of  the  tiger.  Nations  gaze  till  they  forget  the  mur- 
derous work  of  war,  and  the  garments  rolled  in 
blood.  The  whole  earth  is  enlightened,  and  the  star 
shines   on  till   it  brings  in  everlasting  day.     Here 


are  glowing  conceptions,  but  they  are  not  the  work 
of  a  depraved  imagination.  They  will  all  be  realiz- 
ed. Sin  and  death  will  long  walk  hand  in  hand  on 
this  earth,  and  their  footsteps  will  not  be  entirely 
blotted  out  until  the  fires  of  the  last  day  have  melt- 
ed the  globe.  But  the  head  of  the  one  is  already 
bruised,  and  the  sting  is  already  taken  from  the 
other.  They  may  long  roar,  but  they  walk  in  chains, 
and  the  eye  of  faith  sees  the  hand  that  holds  the 
chains. 

But  we  have  visions  still  brighter.  We  look  for 
new  heavens  and  a  new  earth  wherein  dwelleth 
righteousness.  No  sin  will  be  there  to  mar  the  beau- 
ty, no  sorrow  to  diminish  a  joy,  no  anxiety  to  cor- 
rode the  heart,  or  cloud  the  brow.  Our  characters  may 
be  tested,  in  part,  by  our  anticipations.  If  our  thoughts 
and  feelings  are  running  in  the  channel  of  time,  and 
dancing  from  one  earthly  bubble  to  another,  though 
our  hopes  may  come  in  angel-robes,  it  is  a  sad  proof 
that  our  hearts  are  here  also. 

The  world,  the  great  mass  of  mankind,  have  ut- 
terly misunderstood  the  real  object  of  life  on  earth. 
Or  else  he  misunderstands  it  who  follows  the  light  of 
the  Bible.  You  look  at  men  as  individuals,  and 
their  object  seems  to  be  to  gratify  a  contemptible 
vanity,  to  pervert  and  follow  their  low  appetites  and 
passions,  and  the  dictates  of  selfishness,  wherever 
they  may  lead.  You  look  at  men  in  the  aggregate, 
and  this  pride  and  these  passions  terminate  in  wide 
plans  of  ambition,  in  wars  and  bloodshed,  in  strifes 
and  the  destruction  of  all  that  is  virtuous  or  lovely. 
The  history  of  mankind  has  its  pages  all  stained 
with  blood;  and  it  is  the  history  of  a  race  whose  ob- 
ject seemed  to  be,  to  debase  their  powers,  and  sink 
what  was  intended  for  immortal  glory,  to  the  deep- 
est degradation  which  sin  can  cause.  At  one  time, 
you  will  see  an  army  of  five  millions  of  men  follow- 
ing a  leader,  who,  to  add  to  his  poor  renown,  is  now 
to  jeopardize  all  these  lives,  and  the  peace  of  his 
whole  kingdom.  This  multitude  of  minds  fall  in,  and 
they  live,  and  march,  and  fight  and  perish  to  aid  in  ex- 
alting a  poor  worm  of  the  dust.  What  capacities  were 
here  assembled  !  What  minds  were  here  put  in  mo- 
tion !  What  a  scene  of  struggles  were  here  !  And 
who,  of  all  this  multitude,  were  pursuing  the  real 
object  of  life?  From  Xer.xes,  at  their  head,  to  the 
lowest  and  most  debased  in  the  rear  of  the  army, 
was  there  one,  who,  when  weighed  in  the  balances 
of  eternal  truth,  was  fulfilling  the  object  for  which 
he  was  created,  and  for  which  life  is  continued  ?— 
Look  again.  All  Europe  rises  up  in  phrensy,  and 
pours  forth  a  living  tide  towards  the  Holy  Land. 
They  muster  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts. — 
The  cross  waves  on  their  banners,  and  the  holy 
sepulchre  is  the  watchword  by  day  and  night. — 
They  move  eastward,  and  whiten  the  burning  sands 
of  the  deserts  with  their  bleaching  bones.  But  of 
all  these,  from  the  fanatic    whoso  voice  awoke  Eu- 


13 


VOICES  OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED 


rope  to  arms,  down  to  the  lowest  horse-boy,  how 
few  were  actuated  by  any  spirit  which  Heaven,  or 
justice,  to  say  nothing  about  love  could  sanction!  — 
Suppose  the  same  number  of  men,  the  millions 
which  composed  the  continent  which  rose  up  to  ex- 
terminate another,  and  who  followed  the  man  who 
was  first  a  soldier  and  then  a  priest  and  hermit,  and 
who  has  left  the  world  in  doubt  whether  he  was  a 
prophet,  a  madman,  a  fool,  or  a  demagogue,  had 
spent  the  same  treasures  of  life,  and  of  money,  in 
trying  to  spread  the  spirit  of  that  Saviour  for  whose 
tomb  they  could  waste  so  much;  and  suppose  this 
army  had  been  enlightened  and  sanctified  men,  and 
had  devoted  their  powers  to  do  good  to  mankind, 
and  to  honor  their  God,  how  different  would  the 
world  have  been  found  to  day  I  How  many,  think 
you,  of  all  the  then  Christian  world,  acted  under  a 
spirit,  and  with  an  object  before  them  such  as  the 
world  will  approve,  and  especially  such  as  the  pure 
beings-  above  us  will  approve  ? 

Look  a  moment  at  a  few  of  the  efforts  which  ava- 
rice has  made.  For  about  four  centuries,  the  ava- 
rice of  man,  and  of  Christian  men  too,  has  been  prey- 
ing upon  the  vitals  of  Africa.  It  has  taken  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  Ham,  and  doomed  soul  and  body  to 
debasement,  to  ignorance,  to  slavery.  And  what 
are  the  results  ?  Twenty-eight  millions — more 
than  twice  the  population  of  this  country — have 
been  kidnapped  and  carried  away  from  the  land  of 
their  birth.  The  estimate  is,  that  the  increase  in 
the  house  of  bondage  since  those  times,  is  five-fold, 
or  nearly  one  hundred  and  seventy  millions  of  hu- 
man, immortal  beings,  cut  off  from  the  rights  of  man, 
and,  by  legislation  and  p'anning,  reduced  far  towards 
the  scale  ol  the  brutes.  This  is  only  a  single  form  in 
which  avarice  has  been  exerting  its  power.  Supjwse 
the  same  time  and  money,  the  same  effort,  had  been 
spent  in  spreading  the  artrf  of  civilization,  learning 
and  religion,  over  the  continent  of  Africa,  what  a 
vast  amount  of  good  would  have  been  accomplished  I 
And  at  the  day  when  the  recording  angel  reads  the 
history  of  the  earth,  how  very  different  would  be  the 
picture,  and  the  eternal  condition  of  untold  num- 
bers! If  the  marks  of  humanity  are  not  all  blotted  out 
from  that  race  of  miserable  men,  it  is  not  because 
oppression  has  not  been  sufiiciently  legalized,  and 
avarice  been  allowed  to  pursue  its  victims,  till  the 
grave  became  a  sweet  asylum. 

I  am  trying  to  lead  you  to  look  at  the  great  amount 
of  abuse  and  of  perversion  of  mind,  of  which  man- 
kind are  constantly  guilty.  When  Christianity  be- 
gan her  glorious  career,  the  world  had  exhausted  its 
strength  in  trying  to  debase  itself,  and  to  sink  low 
enough  to  embrace  paganism;  and  yet  not  so  low, 
as  not  to  try  to  exist  in  the  shape  of  nations.  The 
experiment  had  been  repeated,  times  we  know  not 
how  many.  Egypt,  Babylonia,  Persia,  polished 
Greece,  iron-footed  Rome,  mystical  Hindooism,  had 
all  tried  it.      They  spent  each,  mind  enough  to  re-  ' 


generate  a  nation,  in  trying  to  build  up  a  system  of 
corrupt  paganism  ;  and  when  that  system  was  built 
up — let  the  shape  and  form  be  what  it  might — the 
n;ition  had  exhausted  its  energies,  and  it  sunk  and  fell 
under  the  effects  of  misapplied  and  perverted  mind. 
No  nation  existed  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  which 
was  not  crumbling  under  the  use  of  its  perverted 
energies,  when  the  gospel  reached  it.  Our  ancestors 
were  crushed  under  the  weightof  aDruidical  priest- 
hood, and  the  rites  of  that  bloody  system  of  religion. 

Another  striking  instance  of  the  perversion  of  mind, 
and  the  abuse  of  the  human  intellect  and  heart,  is 
the  system  of  the  Romish  church.  No  one  created 
mind,  apparently,  could  ever  have  invented  a  scheme 
of  delusion,  of  degradation  of  the  soul,  the  intellect, 
the  whole  man,  so  perfect  and  complete  as  is  this. — 
What  minds  must  have  been  employed  in  shutting 
out  the  light  of  heaven,  and  in  burying  the  manna, 
which  fell  in  showers  so  extended  !  What  a  system  I 
To  gather  all  the  books  in  the  world,  and  put  them 
all  within  the  stone  walls  of  the  monastery  and  the 
cloister, — to  crush  schools,  except  in  these  same 
monasteries,  in  which  they  trained  up  men  to 
become  more  and  more  skilful  in  doing  the  work 
of  ruin, — to  delude  the  world  with  ceremonies  and 
fooleries,  while  the  Bible  was  taken  away,  and  re- 
ligion muttered  her  rites  in  an  unknown  tongue, — 
and  all  this  was  the  result  of  a  settled  plan  to  de- 
base the  intellect  and  mock  poor  human  nature  ! — 
And,  when  the  Reformation  held  up  all  these  abomin- 
ations to  light,  what  a  master  piece  was  the  last  plan 
laid  to  stifle  the  reason  forever  ! — the  inquisition. — 
It  was  reared  through  the  Christian  world :  the  de- 
cree by  a  single  bloM',  proscribed  between  sixty  and 
seventy  printing  presses,  and  excommunicated  all 
who  should  ever  read  any  thing  which  they  might 
produce.  A  philosopher,  who,  like  Galileo,  could 
pour  light  upon  science,  and  astonish  the  world  by 
his  discoveries,  must  repeatedly  fall  into  the  cruel 
mercies  of  the  inquisition.  The  ingenuity  of  hell 
seemed  tasked  to  invent  methods  by  which  the  hu- 
man mind  might  be  shut  up  in  Egyptian  darkness ; 
and  never  has  a  Catholic  community  been  known  to 
be  other  than  degraded,  ignorant,  superstitious  and 
sunken.  Let  light  in,  and  all  who  receive  it  rush  to 
infidelity.  But  what  a  mass  of  mind  has  been,  and 
still  is,  employed  in  upholding  this  system  I  And 
what  a  loss  to  the  world  has  it  produced,  in  quench- 
ing, in  everlasting  darkness,  the  uncounted  millions 
of  glorious  minds  which  have  been  destroyed  by  it ! 
If  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  anathematize  any  or- 
der of  men, —  and  I  hope  I  cannot, — it  would  be  those 
who  are  thus  taking  away  the  key  of  knowledge, 
and  preventing  all  within  the  compass  of  their  influ- 
ence from  fullilling  tlic  great  object  for  which  they 
were  created. 

Was  man  created  for  war?  Did  his  Maker  cre- 
ate the  eye,  that  he  might  take  better  aim  on  the 
fi«dd  of  battle?  give  him  skill  that   he  might  invent 


VOICES   OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


13 


methods  of  slaying  by  thousands  ?  and  plant  a  thirst  ^ 
in  the  soul,  that  it  might  be  quenched  by  ti.e  blood 
of  men?     What  science  or  art  can  boast  of  more 
precision,  of  more  to  teach  it,  to  hail  it  with  enthu- 
siasm, and  to  celebrate  it  in  song  '.   Genius  has  ever 
sat  at  the  feet  of  Mars,  and  exhausted  his  efforts  in 
preparing  exquisite  offerings.     Human   thought  has 
never  made  such  gigantic  efforts  as  when  employed 
in    scenes  of    butchery.      Has    skill     ever    been 
more  active   and   successful — has    Poetry   ever    so 
kindled,  as  when  the  flames  of  Troy  lighted  her  page? 
What  school- boy  is  ignorant  of  the  battle  ground, 
and  the  field  of  blood,  where  ancient  and  modern  ar- 
mies met  and  tried  to  crush  each  other?  Has  Music 
ever  thrilled  like  that  which  led  men  to  battle,  and 
the  plume  of  the  desert-bird  ever  danced  so  grace- 
fully as  when  on  the  head  of  the  warrior  ?     Are  any 
honors  so  freely  bestowed,  or  cheaply  purchased,  as 
those  which  are  gained  by  a  few  hours  of  fighting  ? 
See  that  man,  who,  so  late,  was  the  wonder  of  the 
world,  calling  out,  marshalling,  employing  and  wast- 
ing almost  all  the  treasures  of  Europe,  for  twelve  or 
fifteen  years.     What  multitudes  of  minds  did  he  call 
to  the  murderous  work  of  war ! — minds  that  might 
have  blessed  the  world  with  literature,  with  science, 
with  schools,  and  with  the  gospel  of  peace,  had  they 
not   been  perverted  from  the  great  and  best  object  of 
living  !  Says  a  philosophical  writer,  speaking  on  this 
subject,  "I  might  suppose  for  the  sake  of  illustra- 
tion, that  all  the  schemes  of  ambition,  and  cruelty, 
and  intrigue,  were  blotted  from  the  page  of  history, 
that,  against  the  names  of  the  splendid  and  guilty  ac- 
tors, whom  the  world,  for  ages,  has  wondered  at, 
there  were  written  achievements   of  Christian  be- 
nevolence,   equally  grand  and  characteristic, — and 
then  ask  what  a  change  would  there  be  in  the  scenes 
which  the  world  has  beheld  transacted,  and  what  a 
difference  in  the  results  !     Alexander    should  have 
won  victories  in  Persia  more  splendid  than  those  of 
Granicusand  Arbela  ;  he  should  have  wandered  over 
India,  like  Buchanan,  and  wept  for  another  world  to 
bring  under  the  dominion  of  the   Saviour ;  and  re- 
turning to  Babylon,  should  have  died,  like  Martyn, 
the  victim  of  Christian  zeal.     Caesar   should  have 
made  Gaul  and  Britain  obedient  to  the  faith,  and  cros- 
sing the  Rubicon  with   the   apostolic    legions,  and 
making  the  Romans    freemen  of  the  Lord,    should 
have  been  the  forerunner  of  Paul,  and  done  half  his 
work.     Charlemange  should  have  been  a  Luther. — 
Charles  of  Sweeden  should  have  been   a    Howard ; 
and,  flying  from  the    Baltic   to  the  Euxine,like  an 
angel    of    mercy,    should   have    fallen,    when     on 
some  errand  of  love,  and,  numbering  his  days  by  the 
good  deeds  he  had  done,  should  have  died  like  Mills 
in  an  old  age  of  charity.   Voltaire  should  have  writ- 
ten Christian  tracts.     Rousseau  should  have  been  a 
Fenelon.     Hume  should  have  unravelled  the    intri- 
cacies of  theology,  and  defended  like  Edwards,  the 
faith  once  delivered  to  the  saints." 


We  call  ours  the  most  enlightened  nation  on  earth, 
inferior  to  none  in  owning  the  spirit  of  Christiani- 
ty ;  and  we  claim  this  as  an  age  behind  none  ever 
enjoyed,  for  high  moral  principle  and  benevolent, 
disinterested  action.  But  what  is  the  principle  in 
the  great  mass  of  mankind  I  When  clouds  gather 
in  the  political  horizon,  and  war  threatens  a  nation, 
how  are  the  omens  received  ?  How  many  are  there 
who  turn  aside  and  weep,  and  deprecate  the  guilt, 
the  woe,  and  the  indescribable  evils  and  miseries  of 
war  ?  The  great  majority  of  the  nation  feel  that 
the  path  of  glory  is  now  opening  before  them,  and 
that  the  honor  which  may  possibly  be  attained  by  a 
few  battles,  is  ample  compensation  for  the  expense, 
the  morals,  the  lives  and  the  happiness,  which  must 
be  sacrificed  for  the  possibility.  Let  that  nation 
rush  to  war  for  some  supposed  point  of  honor. — 
Watch  the  population  as  they  collect,  group  after 
group,  under  the  burning  sun,  all  anxious,  all  eager, 
and  all  standing  as  if  in  deep  expectation  for  the 
signal  which  was  to  call  them  to  judgment.  They 
are  waiting  for  the  first  tidings  of  the  battle,  where 
the  honor  of  the  nation  is  staked.  No  tidings  that 
ever  came  from  Heaven  can  send  a  thrill  of  joy  so 
deep  as  the  tidings  that  one  ship  has  conquered  or 
sunk  another. 

Was  it  any  thing  remarkable,  that,  in  the  very 
heart  of  a  Christian  nation,  a  single  horse-race 
brought  over  fifty  thousand  people  together  ?  Were 
they  acting  so  much  out  of  the  character  of  the  mass 
of  mankind  as  to  cause  it  to  make  any  deep  impres- 
sion upon  the  moral  sensibilities  of  the  nation  ? 

Suppose  it  were  known  that  a  mind  was  now  in 
process  of  training,  which  might,  if  its  powers  were 
properly  directed,  be  equal  to  Milton  or  Locke ;  but 
that,  instead  of  this,  it  will  waste  its  powers  in  cre- 
ating such  song  as  Byron  wrote,  or  in  weaving  such 
webs  as  the  schoolmen  wove.  Would  the  know- 
ledge of  such  a  waste  of  mind,  such  perversion  of 
powers,  cause  a  deep  sensation  of  regret  among  men? 
or  have  such  perversions  been  so  common  in  the 
world,  that  one  such  magnificent  mind  might  be 
lost  to  mankind,  and  no  one  would  mourn  ?  The 
answer  is  plain.  The  world  has  become  so  accus- 
tomed to  seeing  mind  prostituted  to  ignoble  pur. 
poses,  and  influence  which  might  reach  round  the 
globe  like  a  zone  of  mercy  thrown  away  forever, 
that  we  hardly  think  of  it  as  greatly  out  of  the 
way. 

A  generation  of  men  come  on  the  stage  of  action; 
they  find  the  world  in  darkness,  in  ignorance,  and  in 
sin.  They  live,  gain  the  few  honors  which  are  ea- 
sily plucked,  gather  the  little  wealth  which  toil  and 
anxiety  will  bestow,  and  then  pass  away.  As  a  whole, 
the  generation  do  not  expect  or  try  to  throw  an  in- 
fluence upon  the  world  which  shall  be  redeeming. — 
They  do  not  expect  to  leave  the  world  materially 
better  than  they  found  it.  Why  do  we  not  mourn 
that  such  myriads  of  immortal  minds  are    destined 


14 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


to  pass  away,  and  never  to  break  out  in  acts  of  mer- 
cy and  kindness  to  the  world  ?  Because  we  have 
so  long  been  so  prodigal  of  mind,  that  we  hardly 
notice  its  loss. 


CHRIST-LIKE. 

BY  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD. 

To-day  is  Christmas.  For  several  days  past,  cart- 
loads of  ever-greens  have  gone  by  my  windows, 
the  pure  snow  falling  on  them,  soft  and  still  as  a 
blessing.  To-day,  churches  are  wreathed  in  ever- 
green, altars  are  illuminated,  and  the  bells  sound 
joyfully  in  Gloria  Exce/sis.  Throngs  of  worshippers 
are  going  up  to  their  altars,  in  the  Greek,  Syrian, 
Armenian,  Roman  and  English  churches.  Eighteen 
hundred  years  ago,  a  poor  babe  was  born  in  a  stable, 
and  a  few  lonely  shepherds  heard  heavenly  voices, 
soft  warbling  over  the  moonlit  hills,  proclaiming 
"Peace  on  earth,  and  good  will  towards  men." 
Earth  made  no  response  to  the  chorus.  It  always 
entertains  angels  unawares.  When  the  Holy  One 
came  among  them,  they  mocked  and  crucified  him. 
But  now  the  stars,  in  their  midnight  course  listen  to 
millions  of  human  voices,  and  deep  organ-tones  strug- 
gling upwards,  vainly  striving  to  express  the  hopes 
and  aspirations,  wdiich  that  advent  concentrated  from 
the  past  and  prophesied  for  the  future.  From  East 
to  West,  from  North  to  South,  men  chant  hymns  of 
praise  to  the  despised  Nazarene,  and  kneel  in  wor- 
ship before  his  cross.  How  beautiful  is  this  univer- 
sal homage  to  the  Principle  of  Love  ? — that  femi- 
nine principle  of  the  universe,  the  inmost  centre  of 
Christianity.  It  is  the  divine  idea  which  distin- 
guishes it  from  all  other  religious,  and  yet  the  idea 
in  which  Christian  nations  evince  so  little  faith,  that 
one  would  think  they  kept,  only  to  swear  by,  that 
gospel  w'hich  says  "Swear  not  at  all." 

Centuries  have  passed,  and  through  infinite  con- 
flict have  "ushered  in  our  brief  to-day ;"  and  is 
there  peace  and  good  will  among  men  ?  Sincere 
faith  in  the  words  of  Jesus  would  soon  fulfil  the 
prophecy  which  angels  sung.  But  the  world  per- 
sists in  saying,  "  This  doctrine  of  unqualified  for- 
giveness and  perfect  love,  though  beautiful  and  holy, 
cannot  be  carried  into  practice  now,-  men  are  not 
yet  prepared  for  it.''  The  same  spirit  says,  "  It 
would  not  be  safe  to  emancipate  slaves  ;  they  must 
first  be  fitted  for  freedom."  As  if  slavery  ever 
could  fit  men  for  freedom,  or  war  ever  lead  the  na- 
tions into  peace  !  Yet  men  who  gravely  utter  these 
excuses,  laugh  at  the  shallow  wit  of  that  timid 
mother,  who  declared  that  her  son  should  never  ven- 
ture into  the  water  till  he  had  learned  to  swim. 

Those  who  have  dared  to  trust'the  principles  of 
peace,  have  always  found  them  perfectly  safe.  It 
can  never  prove  otherwise,  if  accompanied  by  the 
declaration  that  such  a  course  is  the  result  of  Chris- 
tian principle,  and  a  deep  friendliness  for  humanity. 


Who  seemed  so  little  likely  to  understand  such  a 
position,  as  the  Indians  of  North  America?  Yet 
how  readily  they  laid  down  tomahawks  and  scalp- 
ing-knives  at  the  feet  of  William  Penn!  With  what 
humble  sorrow  they  apologized  for  killing  the  only 
two  Quakers  they  were  ever  known  to  attack  I 
"  The  men  carried  arms,"  said  they,  "  and  therefore 
we  did  not  know  they  were  not  fighters.  We  thought 
they  pretended  to  be  Quakers,  because  they  were 
cowards."  The  savages  of  the  East,  who  murdered 
Lyman  and  Munson,  made  the  same  excuse.  "  They 
carried  arms,''  said  they,  "and  so  we  supposed  they 
were  not  Christian  missionaries,  but  enemies.  We 
would  have  done  them  no  harm,  if  we  had  known 
they  were  men  of  God." 

If  a  nation  coidd  but  attain  to  such  high  wisdom  as 
to  abjure  war,  and  proclaim  to  all  the  earth,  "  We 
will  not  fight,  under  any  provocation.  If  other  na- 
tions have  aught  against  us,  we  will  settle  the  ques- 
tion by  umpires  mutually  chosen."  Think  you  that 
any  nation  would  dare  to  make  war  upon  such  a 
people  ?  Nay,  verily,  they  would  be  instinctively 
ashamed  of  such  an  act,  as  men  are  now  ashamed  to 
attack  a  woman  or  a  child.  Even  if  any  were  found 
mean  enough  to  pursue  such  a  course,  the  whole 
civilized  world  would  cry  fie  upon  them,  and  by  uni- 
versal consent,  brand  them  as  paltroons  and  assas- 
sins. And  assassins  they  would  be,  even  in  the  com- 
mon acceptation  of  the  term.  I  have  read  of  a  cer- 
tain regiment  ordered  to  march,  into  a  small  town, 
(in  the  Tyrol,  I  think,)  and  take  it.  It  chanced  that 
the  place  was  settled  by  a  colony  who  believed  the 
gospel  of  Christ,  and  proved  their  faith  by  works. 
A  courier  from  a  neighboring  village  informed  them 
that  troops  w-ere  advancing  to  take  the  town.  They 
quietly  answered,  "  If  they  will  take  it,  they  must." 
Soldiers  soon  came  riding  in,  with  colors  flying,  and 
fifes  piping  their  shrill  defiance.  They  looked  round 
for  an  enemy,  and  saw  the  farmer  at  his  plough,  the 
blacksmith  at  his  anvil,  and  the  women  at  their 
churns  and  spinning-wheels.  Babies  crowed  to  hear 
the  music,  and  boys  ran  out  to  see  the  pretty  trainers, 
with  feathers  and  bright  buttons,  "the  harlequins  of 
the  nineteenth  century."  Of  course,  none  of  these 
were  in  a  proper  position  to  be  shot  at.  "  Where 
arc  your  soldiers  ?"  they  asked.  "  We  have  none," 
was  the  brief  reply.  "  But  we  have  come  to  take 
the  town."  "Well,  friends,  it  lies  before  you." 
"  But  is  there  nobody  hereto  fight?"  "No;  we  are 
all  Christians."  Here  was  an  emergency  altogether 
unprovided  for  by  the  military  schools.  This  was  a 
sort  of  resistance  which  no  bullet  could  hit ;  a  fort- 
ress perfectly  bomb-proof.  The  commander  was 
perplexed.  "If  there  is  nobody  to  fight  with,  of 
course  we  cannot  fight,"  said  he.  "  It  is  impossible 
to  take  such  a  town  as  this."  So  he  ordered  the 
liorses  to  be  turned  about,  and  they  carried 
the  human  animals  out  of  the  village,  as  guiltless  as 
tliey  entered,  and  perchance  somewhat  wiser. 


VOICES     OF     THE     I  RU  E  -  HE  ART  E  D  . 


15 


This  experiment  on  a  small  scale  indicates  how- 
easy  it  would  be  to  dispense  with  armies  and  navies, 
if  men  only  had  faith  in  the  religion  they  profess  to 
believe.  When  France  lately  reduced  her  army, 
England  immediately  did  the  same ;  for  the  exist- 
ence of  one  army  creates  the  necessity  for  another, 
imless  men  are  safely  ensconced  in  the  bomb-proof 
fortress,  above  mentioned. 

The  doctrines  of  Jesus  are  not  beautiful  abstrac- 
tions, but  living,  vital  truths.  There  is  in  them  no 
elaborate  calculation  of  consequences,  but  simply 
the  divine  impulse  uttered.  They  are  few  and  sim- 
ple, but  infinite  in  spirit,  and  of  universal  applica- 
tion. Like  the  algebraic  X,  they  stand  for  the  un- 
known quantity,  and,  if  consulted  aright,  always 
give  the  true  answer.  The  world  has  been  deluged 
with  arguments  about  war,  slavery,  &c.,  and  the 
wisest  product  of  them  all,  is  simply  an  enlightened 
j  application  of  the  maxims  of  Jesus.  Faith  in  God, 
love  to  man,  and  action  obedient  thereto,  from  these 
flow  all  that  belong  to  order,  peace,  and  progress. 
Probably,  the  laws  by  which  the  universe  were 
made,  are  thus  reducible  to  three  in  one,  and  all 
varieties  of  creation  are  thence  unfolded,  as  all 
melody  and  harmony,  flow  from  three  primal  notes. 
God  works  synthetically.  The  divine  idea  goes 
forth  and  clothes  itself  in  form,  from  which  all  the 
infinity  of  forms  are  evolved.  We  mortals  see  truth 
in  fragments,  and  try  to  trace  it  upwards  to  its  origin 
by  painful  analysis.  In  this  there  is  no  growth. 
All  creation,  all  life,  is  evolved  by  the  opposite  pro- 
cess. We  must  reverence  truth.  We  must  have 
that  faith  in  it,  of  which  action  is  the  appropriate 
form ;  and  lo,  the  progress  which  we  have  sought  for 
so  painfully,  will  unfold  upon  us,  as  naturally  as  the 
seed  expands  into  blossoms  and  fruit. 

I  did  not  mean  to  preach  a  sermon.  But  the  ever- 
greens, and  the  music  from  neighboring  churches, 
carried  me  back  to  the  hill-sides  of  Palestine,  and 
my  spirit  involuntary  began  to  ask.  What  response 
does  earth  now  give  to  that  chorus  of  peace  and  good 
will? 

It  matters  little  that  Christ  was  not  born  on  that 
day,  which  the  church  has  chosen  to  commemorate 
his  birth.  The  associations  twined  aroimd  it  for 
many  centuries,  have  consecrated  it  to  my  mind. 
Nor  am  I  indifferent  to  the  fact,  that  it  was  the  old 
Roman  festival  for  the  birth  of  the  Sun.  As  a  form 
of  their  religious  idea,  it  is  interesting  to  me,  and  I 
see  peculiar  beauty  in  thus  identifying  the  birth  of 
the  natural  sun,  with  the  advent  of  the  Son  of  Right- 
eousness, which,  in  an  infinitely  higher  sense,  en- 
lightens and  vivifies  the  nations.  The  learned  argue 
that  Christ  was  probably  born  in  the  spring  ;  because 
the  Jewish  people  were  at  that  season  enrolled  for 
taxation,  and  this  was  the  business  which  carried 
Joseph  and  Mary  to  Bethlehem: — and  because  the 
shepherds  of  Syria  would  not  be  watching  their  flocks 
in  the  open  air,  during  the  cold  months.     To  these 


reasons,  Swedenborgians  would  add  another;  for  ac- 
cording to  the  doctrine  of  Correspondence  unfolded 
by  their  "  illuminated  scribe,"  spring  corresponds 
to  peace ;  that  diapason  note,  from  which  all  growth 
rises  in  harmonious  order. 

But  I  am  willing  to  accept  this  wintry  anniver- 
sary, and  take  it  to  my  heart.  As  the  sun  now  begins 
to  return  to  us,  so  may  the  truth  and  love  which  he 
typifies  gradually  irradiate  and  warm  the  globe.  The 
Romans  kept  their  festival  with  social  feasts  and 
mutual  gifts;  and  the  windows  of  New  York  are 
to-day,  filled  with  all  forms  of  luxury  and  splendor, 
to  tempt  the  wealthy,  who  are  making  up  Christmas 
boxes  for  family  and  friends.  Many  are  the  rich 
jewels  and  shining  stuffs,  this  day  bestowed  by  af- 
fection or  vanity.  In  this  I  have  no  share  ;  but  if  I 
were  as  rich  as  John  Jacob  Astor,  and  not  so  fearful 
of  poverty,  as  he  is  said  to  be,  I  would  this  day  go 
to  the  shop  of  Baronto,  a  poor  Italian  artist,  in  Or- 
chard street,  buy  all  he  has,  and  give  freely  to  every 
one  who  enjoys  forms  of  beauty.  There  are  hidden 
in  that  small  obscure  workshop,  some  little  gems  of 
art.  Alabaster  nymphs,  antique  urns  of  agate,  and 
Hebe  vases  of  the  costly  Verd  de  Prato.  There  is 
something  that  moves  me  strangely  in  those  old  Gre- 
cian forms.  They  stand  like  petrified  melodies  from 
the  world's  youthful  heart.  I  would  like  to  buy  out 
Baronto  every  (Jhristmss,  and  mix  those  "fair  hu- 
manities of  old  religion,''  with  the  Madonnas  and 
Saviours  of  a  more  spiritual  time. 

A  friend  of  mine,  who  has  no  money  to  spend  for 
jewels  or  silks,  or  even  antique  vases,  has  employed 
his  Christmas  more  wisely  than  this  ;  and  in  his  ac- 
tion, there  is  more  angelic  music,  than  in  those  di- 
vine old  statues.  He  filled  a  large  basket  full  of 
cakes,  and  went  forth  into  our  most  miserable 
streets,  to  distribute  them  among  hungry  children. 
How  little  dirty  faces  peeped  after  him,  round  street 
corners,  and  laughed  from  behind  open  gates  !  How 
their  eyes  sparkled  as  they  led  along  some  shivering 
barefooted  urchin,  and  cried  out,  "'I'his  little  boy  has 
had  no  cake,  sir  !"  Sometimes  a  greedy  lad  would 
get  two  shares  by  false  pretences ;  but  this  was  no 
conclusive  proof  of  total  depravity,  in  children  who 
never  ate  cake  from  Christmas  to  Christmas.  No 
wonder  the  stranger  with  his  basket,  excited  a  pro- 
digious sensation.  Mothers  came  to  see  who  it  was 
that  had  been  so  kind  to  their  little  ones.  Every  one 
had  a  story  to  tell  of  health  ruined  by  hard  work, 
of  sickly  children,  or  drunken  husbands.  It  was  a 
genuine  out-pouring  of  hearts.  An  honest  son  of 
the  Emerald  Isle  stood  by,  rubbing  his  head,  and  ex- 
claimed, "Did  my  eyes  ever  see  the  like  o'  that  ? 
A  jintleman  giving  cake  to  folks  he  don't  know,  and 
never  asking  a  bit  o'  money  for  the  same  !" 

Alas,  eighteen  centuries  ago,  that  chorus  of  good 
will  was  sung,  and  yet  so  simple  an  act  of  sympa- 
thizing kindness,  astonishes  the  poor  ! 

In  the  course  of  his  Christmas  rambles,  mv  friend 


16 


VOICES     OF     THE     TR  U  E  -  H  E  A  Px  T  ED. 


entered  a  house  occupied  by  fifteen  families.  In  the 
corner  of  one  room,  on  a  heap  of  rags,  lay  a  woman 
with  a  babe,  three  days  old,  without  food  or  fire.  In 
another  very  small  apartment,  was  an  aged,  wea- 
ther-beaten woman.  She  pointed  to  an  old  basket 
of  pins  and  tape,  as  she  said,  "For  sixteen  years  I 
have  carried  that  basket  on  my  arm,  through  the 
streets  of  New  York ;  and  often  have  I  come  home 
with  weary  feet,  without  money  enough  to  buy  my 
supper.  But  we  must  always  pay  our  rent  in  ad- 
vance, whether  we  have  a  loaf  of  bread  to  eat  or 
not.''  Seeing  the  bed  without  clothing,  her  visiter 
inquired  how  she  slept.  '-Oh  the  house  is  very 
leaky.  The  wind  whistles  through  and  through, 
and  the  rain  and  snow  come  driving  in.  Wlien  any 
of  us  are  sick,  or  the  weather  is  extra  cold,  we  lend 
our  bedding,  and  some  of  us  sit  up  while  others  get 
a  nap."  As  she  spoke,  a  ragged  little  girl  came  in 
to  say,  "Mammy  wants  to  know  whether  you  will 
lend  her  your  fork  ?"  "To  be  sure,  I  will,  dear," 
she  replied,  in  the  heartiest  tone  imaginable.  She 
would  have  been  less  generous,  had  her  fork  been  a 
silver  one.  Her  visiter  smiled  as  he  said,  "  I  sup- 
pose you  borrow  your  neighbor's  knife,  in  return  for 
your  fork?"  "  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied;  "and  she  is 
as  willing  to  lend  as  I  am.  We  poor  folks  must  help 
one  another.  It  is  all  the  comfort  we  have."  The 
kind-hearted  creature  did  not  know,  perhaps,  that  it 
was  precisely  such  comfort  as  the  angels  have  in 
heaven  ;  only  theirs  is  without  the  drawback  of  phy- 
sical suffering  and  limited  means. 

I  have  said  that  these  families,  owning  a  knife 
and  fork  between  them,  and  loaning  their  bedclothes 
after  a  day  of  toil,  were  always  compelled  to  pay 
their  rent  in  advance.  Upon  adding  together  the 
sums  paid  by  each,  for  accommodations  so  wretched, 
it  was  found  that  the  income  from  that  dilapidated 
building,  in  a  filthy  and  crowded  street,  was  greater 
than  the  rent  of  many  a  princely  mansion  in  Broad- 
way. This  mode  of  oppressing  the  poor,  is  a  crying 
sin,  in  our  city.  A  benevolent  rich  man  could  not 
make  a  better  investment  of  capital,  than  to  build 
tenements  for  the  laboring  class,  and  let  them  on 
reasonable  terms. 

This  Christmas  tour  of  observation,  has  suggested 
to  my  mind  many  thoughts  concerning  the  present 
relations  of  labor  and  capital.  But  I  forbear  ;  for  I 
see  that  this  path,  like  every  other,  "  if  you  do  but 
follow  it,  leads  to  the  end  of  the  world."  I  had  ra- 
ther dwell  on  the  perpetual  efforts  of  Divine  Provi- 
dence to  equalize  what  the  selfishness  of  man  strives 
to  make  unequal.  If  the  poor  have  fewer  pleasures 
than  the  rich,  they  enjoy  them  more  keenly  ;  if  they 
have  not  that  consideration  in  society,  which  brings 
with  it  so  many  advantages,  they  avoid  the  irksome 
slavery  of  conventional  forms;  and  what  exercise  of 
the  benevolent  sympathies  could  a  rich  man  enjoy, 
in  making  the  most  magnificent  Christmas  gift,  com- 
pared with  the  beautiful   self-denial  which   lends  its 


last  blanket,  that  another  may  sleep?  That  there 
should  exist  the  necesm'/i/  for  such  sacrifices,  what 
does  it  say  to  us  concerning  the  structure  of  society, 
on  this  Christmas  day,  nearly  two  thousand  years 
after  the  advent  of  Him,  who  said,  "God  is  your 
father,  and  all  ye  are  brethren"  ? 

THE    BATTLE-FIELD. 

T,l     WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd; 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle  cloud. 

Ah  I  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life. blood  of  her  brave — 

Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  valor  yet, 
Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm  and  fresh  and  still; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry — 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again  ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought — but  thou, 

Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 
For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 

Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year ; 

A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flank  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof. 

And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot ; 
The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof. 

The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou  not ! 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, — 
The  hissing,  stinging  bolt  of  scorn  ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last. 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again  ; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  her's  ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  with  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust. 

When  those  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 

Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 
Till  from  the  trumpet "s  mouth  is  pealed 

The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave  ! 


VOICES  OF  THE  TllUE  HEARTED. 


THE    STAR-GAZER. 

BY   C.   r.  CllANCH. 

Star  after  star  looked  glimmering  down, 

As  in  the  night  he  sat  alone  : 
And  in  the  firmament  of  mind 

Thought  after  thought  upon  him  shone. 

An  inner  sky  did  sometimes  seem 

To  show  him  truths  of  deepest  worth, 

Which  custom's  daylight  long  had  dimmed, 
Or  sense  had  clouded  in  their  birth. 

And  well  he  knew  the  world  was  dark, 

And  few  would  hear  what  he  could  tell, 
And  fewer  still  would  sit  with  him 
And  watch  that  sky  he  loved  so  well. 

One  solitary  soul  he  seemed — 

And  yet  he  knew  that  all  might  see 

The  orbs  that  showed  to  him  alone 
The  fulness  of  their  majesty. 

He  knew  that  all  the  silent  scorn 

Which  now  in  meekness  he  must  bear, 

Would  change  to  worship  when  his  ear 
No  longer  was  a  list'ner  there. 

And  when  the  cold  and  rugged  sod 

Had  pressed  the  brain  that  toiled  for  them, 

Tliat  on  his  statue  men  would  hang 
The  unavailing  diadem. 

All  this  he  felt,  and  yet  his  faith, 

In  uncomplaining  silence,  kept 
With  starry  Truth  its  vigils  brave. 

While  all  his  brothers  round  him  slept. 

They  slept  and  would  not  wake — until 
The  distant  lights  that  fixed  his  gaze. 

Came  moving  on,  and  spread  abroad 
The  glory  of  a  noontide  blaze. 

And  then  they  started  from  their  dreams, 
And  slowly  oped  their  leaden  eyes, 

And  saw  the  light  whose  splendors  now 
Are  darting  through  the  azure  skies. 

Then  turned  and  sought  for  him  whose  name 
They  in  their  sleep  had  mocked  and  cursed, 

But  he  had  left  them  long  before 
The  vision  on  their  souls  had  burst. 

And  underneath  the  sod  he  lay. 

Now  all  bedued  with  fruitful  tears  ; 

And  they  could  only  deck  the  tomb 
That  told  of  his  neglected  years. 


A    LONDON   LYRIC. 

EY   "  B.A.RRY  CORNWALL." 

(Without.) 

The  winds  are  bitter  ;  the  skies  are  wild  ; 

From  the  roof  comes  plunging  the  drowning  rain. 
Without— in  tatters,  the  world's  poor  child 

Sobbeth  alone  her  grief,  her  pain ; 
No  one  heareth  her,  no  one  heedeth  her  ; 

But  hunger,  her  friend,  with  his  cold,  gaunt  hand, 
Grasps  her  throat— whispering  huskily, 

"  What  dost  thou  in  a  Christian  land  ?" 

(  Within.) 

The  skies  are  wild,  and  the  blast  is  cold; 

Yet  Riot  and  Luxury  brawl  within  ; 
Slaves  are  waiting  in  crimson  and  gold — 

Waiting  the  nod  of  a  child  of  sin. 
The  crackling  wine  is  bubbling 

Up  in  each  glass  to  its  beaded  brim  ; 
The  jesters  are  laughing,  the  parasites  quaffing 

"  Happines  "—"honor  "—and  all  for  him'. 

(  Without.) 

She  who  is  slain  'neath  the  winter  weather— 

Ah,  she  once  had  a  village  fame. 
Listened  to  love  on  the  moonlit  heather. 

Had  gentleness— vanity — maiden  shime. 
Now  her  allies  are  the  tempests  howling. 

Prodigal's  curses— self  disdain, 
Poverty— misery— Well,  no  matter. 

There  is  an  end  unto  every  pain. 

The  harlot's  fame  was  her  doom  to-day, 

Disdain — despair;  by  to-morrow's  light 
The  ragged  boards  and  the  pauper's  pall ; 

And  so  she'll  be  given  to    dusky  night. 
Without  a  tear  or  a  human  sigh. 

She's  gone— poor  life  and  it's  "  fever  "  o'er  ; 
j  So— let  her  in  calm  oblivion  lie, 

While  the  world  runs  merry  as  heretofore  ! 

(  Within.) 

He  who  yon  lordly  feast  enjoyeth, 

He  who  doth  rest  on  his  couch  of  down, 
He  it  was    who  threw  the  forsaken 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  town. 
Liax — betrayer— false  as  cruel— 

What  is  the  doom  for  his  dastard  sin  ? 
His  peers,  they  scorn  '-high  dames,  they  shun  him ' 

Unbar  yon  palace  and  gaze  within. 


18 


VOICES  OF  THE  "f  RU  E-H  E  ART  E  D 


There — yet  tlxe  deeds  are  all  trumpet  sounded — 

There,  upon  silken  seats  recline 
Maidens  as  fair  as  the  summer   morning, 

Watchinj^  him  rise  from  the  sparl<ling  wine. 
Mothers  all  proffer  their  stainless  daughters  ; 

Men  of  high  honor  salute  him  "  friend  ;" 
Skies  !    Oh,  wliere  are  your  cloansin";  waters  ? 

World  I   oh,  where  do  thy  wonders  end  ? 


BLANKETS. 
To  he  read  on  a  cold  night  in  November. 

BY     "  OM)    lUJMl'HKEY." 

Help  me  my  young  friends  !  Help  me,  for  the 
poor  stand  in  need  of  comfort  :  let  us  try  to  do  them 
a  kindness. 

How  the  casements  rattle  I  and  hark,  how  the  bit- 
ter, biting  blast  whistles  among  the  trees  !  It  is 
very  cold,  and  soon  will  be  colder.  I  could  shiver 
at  the  thought  of  winter,  when  the  icicles  hang  from 
the  water-butt,  when  the  snow  lies  deep  upon  the 
ground,  and  the  cold,  cold  wind  seems  to  freeze  the 
heart  as  well  as  the  finger  ends. 

Yet,  after  all,  the  darkest  night,  the  bitterest  blast, 
and  the  rudest  storm  confer  some  benefit,  for  they 
make  us  thankful  for  the  roof  that  covers  us,  the  fire 
that  warms  us,  and  for  the  grateful  influence  of  a 
comfortable  bed. 

Oh  the  luxury  of  a  good,  thick,  warm  pair  of 
blankets,  when  the  wintry  blast  roars  in  the  chim- 
ney, while  the  feathery  flakes  of  snow  are  flying 
abroad,  and  the  sharp  hail  patters  against  the  window- 
panes  I 

Did  you  ever  travel  a  hundred  miles  on  the  out- 
side of  a  coach,  on  a  sharp  frosty  night ;  your  eyes 
stiffened,  your  face  smarting,  and  your  body  half- 
petrified  !  Did  you  ever  keep  watch  in  December 
in  the  open  air,  till  the  more  than  midnight  blast 
had  pinched  all  your  features  into  sharpness  ;  till 
your  feet  were  cold  as  a  stone,  and  the  very  stars 
appeared  as  if  frozen  to  the  sky  ?  If  you  have  never 
borne  these  things,  I  have ;  but  what  are  they 
compared  with  the  trials  that  some  people  have  to 
endure  ? 

Who  can  tell  the  siifforing.s  of  thousands  of  poor 
people  in  winter,  from  the  want  of  warm  bed- 
clothes !  and  who  can  describe  the  comfort  that  a 
pair  or  two  of  blankets  communicate  to  a  destitute 
family  !  How  often  have  I  seen  the  wretched  chil- 
dren of  a  wretched  habitation,  huddling  together  on 
the  floor,  beneath  a  ranged  great-coat,  or  flimsy 
petticoat,  striving  to  derive  that  warmth  from  each 
other  which  their  scanty  covering  failed  to  supply! 

In  many  places,  benevolent  persons  give  or  lend 
blankets  to  the  poor,  and  thus  confer  a  benefit,  the 
value  of  which  can  hardly  be  told.  May  they  be 
abundantly  r<'])aid  by  iho  grace  of  thai  Sn\i()ur  who 


saidjwhen  speaking  of  kindnesses  done  to  his  disciples, 
"  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least 
of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me." 

Think  of  these  things  now,  for  it  will  be  of  no 
use  to  reflect  on  them  in  summer.  Charity  is  never 
so  cordial  as  when  it  feels  the  misery  it  relieves  ; 
while  you  feel  the  cold,  then  do  something  to  pro- 
tect others  from  the  inclemency  of  the  season.  It  is 
enough  to  be  ill-fed,  and  ill-clothed,  and  to  sit  bend- 
ing over  a  dying  fire  without  a  handful  of  fuel  to  re- 
vive it  ;  but  after  that  to  pass  the  night  without  a 
blanket  for  a  covering,  must  indeed  be  terrible. 

See  in  the  sharpest  night  the  poor  old  man,  over 
whose  head  threescore  and  ten  winters  have  rolled, 
climbing  with  difficulty  his  narrow  staircase,  to 
creep  beneath  his  thin  and  ragged  coverlet !  See 
the  aged  widow,  once  lulled  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  but 
now  girt  around  with  trials,  in  fastings  often,  in 
cold,  and  almost  nakedness,  worn  by  poverty  to  the 
very  bones,  stretching  her  cramped  limbs  upon  her 
bundle  of  straw!  Fancy,— but  why  fancy  what 
you  know  to  be  true  ? — these  poor,  aged,  miserable 
beings  have  to  shiver  through  the  live-long  night, 
when  a  blanket  would  gird  them  round  with  comfort. 
I  could  weep  at  such  miseries  as  these, — miseries 
which  so  small  an  effort  might  relieve.  The  table- 
crumbs  of  the  rich  would  make  a  banquet  for  the 
poor,  and  the  spare  remnants  of  their  clothing  would 
defend  them  from  the  cold. 

Come,  come,  reader  !  you  are  not  without  some 
feeling  of  pity  and  affection  for  your  fellow  creatures. 
Be  not  satisfied  in  wishing  them  well ;  let  something 
be  done  for  their  welfare, 

If  there  be  a  heart  within  you,  if  you  have  a  soul 
that  ever  offered  up  an  expression  of  thanksgiving 
for  the  manifold  mercies  which  your  heavenly  Father 
has  bestowed  upon  you,  then  sympathize  with  the 
wretched,  and  relieve,  according  to  your  ability,  the 
wants  of  the  destitute.  Let  me  beseech  you  to  do 
something  this  very  winter  towards  enabling  some 
poor,  aged,  helpless,  or  friendless  person,  who  is 
slenderly  provided  for,  to  purchase  a  blanket.  You 
will  not  sleep  the  less  comfortably,  when  you  re- 
flect that  some  shivering  wretch  has  been,  by  your 
assistance,  enabled  to  i)ass  the  wintry  night  in  com- 
fort. It  is  not  a  great  thing  that  is  required  ;  do 
what  you  can,  but  do  something.  Let  me  not  pletd 
in  vain  ;  and  shame  betide  me  if  I  neglect  to  do  my- 
self the  thing  that  I  recommend  to  you  to  perform. 

Did  3-0U  ever  lie  snug  and  warm  in  bleak  Decem- 
ber, the  bed-clothes  drawn  close  round  your  neck, 
and  your  nightcap  pulled  over  your  ears,  listening 
to  tlie  midnight  blast,  and  exulting  in  the  grateful 
glow  of  your  delightful  snuggery  ?  I  know  you 
have,  and  I  trust,  too,  that  the  very  reading  of  these 
remarks  will  affect  your  hearts,  and  dispose  yon  to 
some  "  gentle  deed  of  charity''  towards  those  who 
arc  destitute  of  such  an  enjoyment. 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


19 


Now,  then,  while  the  subject  is  before  you,  while 
you  look  round  on  youv  manifold  comforts,  while 
you  feel  the  nipping  and  frosty  air,  resolve,  aye, 
and  act,  in  a  way  that  will  bless  others,  and  give 
comfort  to  your  own  heart. 

Youth  and  health  may  rejoice  in  frost  and  snow, 
and  while  the  warm  blood  rushes  through  the  exult- 
ing frame,  we  can  smile  at  the  wintry  blast ;  but 
age,  sickness,  and  infirmity,  can  take  no  exercise 
sufficient  to  quicken  the  sluggish  current  of  their 
veins.  Wrap  them  round,  then,  with  your  charity  ; 
help  them  to  obtain  a  pair  of  warm  blankets,  and 
the  blessing  of  the  widow  and  the  fatherless,  the 
aged  and  infirm,  the  destitute,  and  those  ready  to 
perish,  shall  rest  upon  you. 


TRUE  REST. 

Sweet  is  the  pleasure, 
Itself  cannot  spoil  I 

Is  not  true  leisure 
One  with  true  toil  ? 

Thou  that  wouldst  taste  it, 

Still  do  thy  best ; 
Use  it,  not  waste  it. 

Else  'tis  no  rest. 

Wouldst  behold  beauty 
Near  thee  ?  all  round  ? 

Only  hath  duty 
Such  a  sight  found. 

Rest  is  not  quitting 

The  busy  career ; 
Rest  is  the  fitting 

Of  self  to  its  sphere. 

'Tis  the  brook's  motion, 
Clear  without  strife, 

Fleeing  to  ocean 
After  its  life. 

Deeper  devotion 

Nowhere  hath  knelt ; 

Fuller  emotion 
Heart  never  felt. 

'Tis  loving  and  serving 
The  highest  and  best  I 

'Tis  oNWARns'   unswerving 
And  that  is  true  rest. 


THE  MOURNERS. 

EY    CAROLINE  E.  S.  NORTON. 

Low  she  lies,  who  blest  our  eyes 
Through  many  a  sunny  day  ; 

She  may  not  smile,  she  will  not  rise, 
The  life  hath  passed  away  ! 


Yet  there  is  a  world  of  light  beyond. 

Where  we  neither  die  nor  sleep; 
She  is  there  of  whom  our  souls  were  found, — 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep? 

The  heart  is  cold  whose  thoughts  were  told 

In  each  glance  of  her  glad  bright  eye  ; 
And  she  lies  pale,  who  was  so  bright. 

She  scarce  seemed  made  to  die. 
Yet  we  know  that  her  soul  is  happy  now. 

Where  the  saints  their  calm  watch  keep ; 
That  angels  are  crowning  that  fair  young  brow, — 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep? 

Her  laughing  voice  made  all  rejoice. 

Who  caught  the  happy  sound  ; 
There  was  gladness  in  her  very  step. 

As  it  lightly  touched  the  ground.  * 

The  echoes  of  voice  and  step  are  gone, 

There  is  silence  still  and  deep  ; 
Yet  we  know  she  sings  by  God's  bright  throne, — 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 

The  cheek's  pale  tinge,  the  lid's  dark  fringe, 

That  lies  like  a  shadow  there, 
Were  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  all, — 

And  her  glossy  golden  hair  ! 
But  though  that  lid  may  never  wake 

From  its  dark  and  dreamless  sleep ; 
She  is  gone  where  young  hearts  do  not  break, — 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 

That  world  of  light  with  joy  is  bright; 

This  is  a  world  of  wo  : 
Shall  we  grieve  that  her  soul  hath  taken  flight, 

Because  we  dwell  below  ? 
We  will  bury  her  under  the  mossy  sod. 

And  one  long  bright  tress  we'll  keep; 
We  have  only  given  her  back  to  God, — 

Ah  I  wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 

MY  MOTHER. 

BY      "OLD      HUMPHREY." 

Whether  you  have,  or  have  not  a  mother,  my 
present  address  will  not  be  unsuitable. 

With  whatever  respect  and  admiration  a  child 
may  regard  a  father,  whose  example  has  called  forth 
his  energies  and  animated  him  in  his  various  pur- 
suits, he  turns  with  greater  affection,  and  intenser 
love,  to  a  kind-hearted  mother.  The  same  emotion 
follows  him  through  life,  and  when  the  changing 
vicissitudes  of  after  years  have  removed  his  parents 
from  him,  seldom  does  the  remembrance  of  his 
mother  occur  to  his  mind,  unaccompanied  by  the  most 
affectionate  recollections. 

Show  me  a  man,  though  his  brow  be  furrowed, 
and  his  hair  grey,  who  has  forgotten  his  mother,  and 
I  shall  suspect  that  something  is  going  on  wrong 
within  him;  either  his  memory  is  impaired,  or  a 
hard  heart  is  beating  in  his  bosom.     "  My  Mother'' 


20 


VOICES    OF    T  H  i:   TRUE-HEARTED 


is  an  expression  of  music  and  melody  that  takes  us 
back  agian  to  the  days  of  our  childhood,  places  us 
once  more  kneeling  in  the  soft  lap  of  a  tender  parent, 
and  lifts  up  our  little  hands  in  morning  and  evening 
prayer. 

For  my  own  part,  I  never  think  of  my  mother, 
without  thinking,  at  the  same  time,  of  unnumbered 
kindnesses,  exercised  not  towards  me  only,  but  to 
all  around  her.  From  my  earliest  years,  I  can  re- 
member that  the  moment  her  eye  caught  the  com- 
mon beggar,  her  hand  mechanically  fumbled  in  her 
pocket.  IS'o  shoeless  and  stockingless  Irish-woman, 
with  her  cluster  of  dirty  children,  could  pass  un- 
noticed by  her;  and  no  weary  and  wayworn  travel- 
ler could  rest  on  the  mile-stone  opposite  our  habi- 
tation, without  being  beckoned  across  to  satisfy  his 
hunger  and  thirst.  No  doubt  she  assisted  many 
who  were  unworthy,  for  she  relieved  all  within  her 
influence. 

"  Careless  their  meriti  or  tlieir  faults  to  scan 
Her  pity  pave  ere  charily  becaii.'' 

Had  her  kindness,  like  that  of  many,  been  confin- 
ed to  good  counsel,  or  the  mere  act  of  giving  what 
she  had  to  bestow,  it  would  not  have  been  that  cha- 
rity which  "  beareth  all  things,  believeth  all  things, 
hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things,"  1  Cor.  xiii. 
7-  Her  benevolence  was  uniform  and  unceasing;  it 
was  a  part  of  her  character.  In  benefiting  another, 
difficulty  only  increased  her  desire  and  determina- 
tion to  be  useful.  She  was  one  "  who  searched  out" 
the  cause  that  she  knew  not ;  her  pen  addressed  the 
peer,  and  her  feet  trod  the  threshold  of  the  pauper, 
with  equal  alacrity  in  the  cause  of  charity.  To  be 
occupied  in  relieving  the  poor,  and  pleading  the 
cause  of  the  friendless,  was  medicine  to  her  body 
and  mind. 

No  child  could  cry,  no  accident  take  place,  no 
sickness  occur,  without  my  mother  hastening  off  to 
render  assistance.  She  had  her  piques  and  her  pre- 
judices ;  she  never  pretended  to  love  those  whom 
she  did  not  like  ;  and  she  remembered,  perhaps  too 
keenly,  an  act  of  unkindness,  but  kindness  was  the 
reigning  emotion  of  her  heart. 

Reader,  if  you  think  that  1  have  said  enough,  bear 
with  me  ;  remember,  I  am  speaking  of  my  mother. 

Among  the  many  sons  and  daughters  of  affliction, 
whose  hearts  were  made  glad  by  her  benevolence, 
was  a  poor  widow  of  the  name  of  Winn,  who  resided 
in  an  almshouse  ;  my  mother  had  known  her  in  her 
childhood.  Often  have  I  gazed  on  the  aged  woman, 
as  she  shaped  her  tottering  steps,  leaning  on  a  stick, 
towards  our  dwelling.  A  weekly  allowance,  a  kind 
welcome,  and  a  good  dinner,  once  a  week,  were  hers 
to  the  close  of  her  existence.  She  had  a  grateful 
heart,  and  the  blessing  of  her  who  was  "  ready  to 
perish,"  literally  rested  on  my  mother. 

I  could  weary  you  with  instances  of  my  mother's 
kindness  of  hr-arf  ;  one  more,  and  I  liuve  done. 


With  her  trowel  in  her  hand,  my  mother  was  busi- 
ly engaged,  one  day,  among  the  shrubs  and  flowers 
of  her  little  garden,  and  listening  with  pleasure  to 
the  sound  of  a  band  of  music,  which  poured  around  a 
cheerful  air  from  a  neighbouring  barrack-j'ard,  where 
a  troop  or  two  of  soldiers  were  quartered  ;  when  a 
neighbour  stepped  into  the  garden  to  tell  her,  that  a 
soldier  was  then  being  flogged,  and  that  the  band 
only  played  to  drown  the  cries  of  the  suffering  of- 
fender. Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  my  agitated 
parent;  down  dropped  her  trowel  on  the  ground, 
and  away  she  ran  into  the  house,  shutting  herself  up, 
and  bursting  into  tears.  The  garden  was  forgotten, 
the  pleasure  had  vanished,  and  music  had  turned 
into  mourning  in  the  bosom  of  my  mother. 

Reader  I  have  you  a  mother  ?  If  )'ou  have,  call  to 
mind  her  forbearance,  her  kindness,  her  love.  Try 
also  to  return  them  by  acts  of  affection,  that  when 
the  future  years  shall  arrive,  when  the  green  sod 
shall  be  springing  over  the  resting-place  of  a  kind- 
hearted  parent,  you  may  feel  no  accusing  pang  when 
you  hear  the  endearing  expression.  My  Mother  I 


THE   BRIDGE   OF    SIGHS. 

"  Drowned  !  drowned  !'' — Hamlet. 
One  more  Unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath. 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  I 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements, 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing  ; 
Take  her  up  instantly. 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully — 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly. 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her  ; 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny. 
Rash  and  undutilul; 
Past  all  dishonor. 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers 
One  of  Eve's  familj' — 
Wipe'  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oi'zing  so  danmiily 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


21 


Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 

Still,  or  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  ! 
Oh  !  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly. 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed  : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement. 

She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver ; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  : 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd— 
Any  where,  any  where, 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 
Dissolute  Man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly. 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 
Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly. 
Decently — kindly — 


Smooth,  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them. 
Staring  so  blindly ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily. 
Spurred  by  contumely. 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity. 
Into  her  rest — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly. 
As  if  praying  dumbly. 
Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness. 
Her  evil  behaviour, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour  ! 

EVENING  SONG  OF  THE  WEARY. 

BY  FELICIA  D.  HEMA.XS. 

Father  of  Heaven  and  Earth ! 

I  bless  thee  for  the  night. 

The  soft,  still  night, 
The  holy  pause  of  care  and  mirth, 

Of  soimd  and  light ! 

Now  far  in  glade  and  dell, 
Flower-cup,  and  bud,  and  bell, 
Have  shut  around  the  sleeping  wood-lark's  nest ; 
The  bee's  long  murmuring  toils  are  done, 
And  I,  the  o'er-wearied  one, 
O'er-wearied  and  o'er-wrought, 
Bless  thee,  O  God,  0  Father  of  the  oppressed, 
With  my  last  waking  thought. 
In  the  still  night ! 

Yes,  ere  I  sink  to  rest, 
By  the  fire's  dying  light. 
Thou  Lord  of  Earth  and  Heaven  !— 
I  bless  thee,  who  hast  given 
Unto  life's  fainting  travellers,  the  night, 
The  soft,  still,  holy  night ! 

HOW  JESUS  WAS  RECEIVED. 

BY  THEODORE  P.lRKER. 

Truth  never  yet  fell  dead  in  the  streets  ;  it  has 
such  affinity  with  the  soul  of  man,  that  the  seed,  how- 
ever broadcast,  will  catch  somewhere,  and  produce  its 
hundredfold.  Some  kept  his  sayings  and  pondered 
them  in  their  heart.  Others  heard  them  gladly. 
Did  priests  and  Levites  stop  their  ears?  Publicans 
and  harlots  went  into  the  kingdom  of  God  before 
them.     Those   bles^rd    women,   whose   hearts    God 


2  J 


VOICES     OF     THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


had  sown  deepest  with  the  orient  pearl  of  faith ;  thej' 
who  ministered  to  him  in  his  wants,  washed  his  feet 
with  tears  of  penitence,  and  wiped  them  with  the 
hairs  of  their  head,  was  it  in  vain  he  spoke  to  them  ? 
Alas,  for  the  anointed  priest,  the  child  of  Levi,  the 
sons  of  Aaron,  men  who  shut  up  inspiration  in  old 
books,  and  believed  God  was  asleep  --They  stumbled 
in  darkness,  and  fell  into  the  ditch.  But  doubtless 
there  was  many  a  tear-stained  face  that  brightened 
like  fires  new  stirred,  as  truth  spoke  out  of  Jesus' 
lips.  His  word  swayed  the  multitude  as  pendent 
vines  swing  in  the  summer  wind ;  as  the  spirit  of 
God  moved  on  the  waters  of  chaos,  and  said,  "  Let 
there  be  light,"  and  there  was  light.  No  doubt 
many  a  rude  fisherman  of  Genncsarcth  heard  his 
words  with  a  heart  bounding  and  scarce  able  to  keep 
in  his  bosom,  went  home  a  new  man,  with  a  legion 
of  angels  in  his  breast,  and  from  that  day  lived  a  life 
divine  and  beautiful.  No  doubt,  on  the  other  hand, 
Rabbi  Kozeb  Ben  Shatan,  when  he  heard  of  the 
eloquent  Nazarene  and  his  Sermon  on  the  Mount, 
said  to  his  disciples,  in  private,  at  Jerusalem,  "  This 
new  doctrine  will  not  injure  us  prudent  and  educated 
men;  we  know  that  men  may  worship  as  well  out 
of  the  temple  as  in  it ;  a  burnt  offering  is  nothing  ; 
the  ritual  of  no  value ;  the  Sabbath  like  any  other 
day;  the  law  faulty  in  many  things,  offensive  in 
some,  and  no  more  from  God  than  other  laws  equally 
good.  We  know  that  the  priesthood  is  a  human  af- 
fair, originated  and  managed  like  other  human  affairs. 
We  may  confess  all  this  to  ourselves,  but  what  is 
the  use  of  telling  it  ?  The  people  wish  to  be  deceived; 
let  them.  The  Pharisee  will  conduct  wisely  like  a 
Pharisee— for  he  sees  the  eternal  fitness  of  things — 
even  if  these  doctrines  should  be  proclaimed.  But 
this  people,  who  know  not  the  law,  what  will  become 
of  them?  Simon  Peter,  James,  and  John,  those 
poor  unlettered  fishermen  on  the  lake  of  Galilee,  to 
whom  we  gave  a  farthing  and  the  priestly  blessing, 
in  our  summer  excursion,  what  will  become  of  them 
when  told  that  every  word  of  the  law  did  not  come 
straight  out  of  the  mouth  of  Jehovah,  and  the  ritual 
is  nothing  I  They  will  go  over  to  the  flesh  and  the 
devil,  and  will  be  lost.  It  is  true,  that  the  law  and 
the  prophets  are  well  summed  up  in  one  word,  love 
God  and  man.  But  never  let  us  sanction  the  saying, 
it  would  ruin  the  seed  of  Abraham,  keep  back  the 
kingdom  of  God,  and  "destroy  our  usefulness." 
Thus  went  it  at  Jerusalem.  The  new  word  was 
"  Blasphemy,"  the  new  prophet  an  "Infidel,"  "  be- 
side himself,  had  a  devil."  But  at  Galilee,  things 
took  a  shape  somewhat  different;  one  which  blind 
guides  could  not  foresee.  The  common  people,  not 
knowing  the  law,  counted  him  a  prophet  come  up 
from  the  dead,  and  heard  him  gladly.  Yes,  thou- 
sands of  men,  and  women  also,  with  hearts  in  their 
bosoms,  gathered  in  the  field,  and  pressed  about  him 
in  the  city  and  the  desert  place,  forgetful  of  hunger 
and  thirst,  and  were  fed  to  the  full  with  hit;  words, 


words  so  deep  that  a  child  could  understand  them ; 
James  and  John  leave  all  to  follow  him  who  had  the 
word  of  eternal  life;  and  when  that  young  carpenter 
asks  Peter,  "Who  sayest  thou  that  I  am?"  it  has 
been  revealed  to  that  poor  unlettered  fisherman,  not 
by  flesh  and  blood,  but  by  the  word  of  the  Lord,  and 
he  can  say,  "  Thou  art  the  Christ  the  son  of  the 
living  God."  The  Pharisee  went  his  way,  and 
preached  a  doctrine  that  he  knew  was  false  ;  the 
fisherman  also  went  his  way ;  but  which  went  to 
the  flesh  and  the  devil  ? 

We  cannot  tell,  no  man  can  tell,  the  feelings 
which  the  large  free  doctrines  of  absolute  religion 
awakened  when  heard  for  the  first  time.  There 
must  have  been  many  a  Simeon  waiting  for  the 
consolation;  many  a  Mary  longing  for  the  better 
part ;  many  a  soul  in  cabins  and  cottages  and  stately 
dwellings,  that  caught  glimpses  of  the  same  truth, 
as  God's  light  shone  through  some  crevice  which 
piety  made  in  the  wall  prejudice  and  superstition 
had  built  up  betwixt  man  and  God  ;  men  who  scarce 
dared  to  trust  that  revelation — "  too  good  to  be  true'' 
such  was  their  awe  of  Moses,  their  reverence  for 
the  priest.  To  them  the  word  of  Jesus  must  have 
sounded  divine  ;  like  the  music  of  their  home  sung 
out  in  the  sky,  and  heard  in  a  distant  land,  beguiling 
toil  of  its  weariness,  pain  of  its  sting,  affliction  of 
despair  There  must  have  been  men,  sick  of  forms 
which  had  lost  their  meaning,  pained  with  the 
open  secret  of  sacerdotal  hypocrisy,  hungering  and 
thirsting  after  the  truth,  yet  whom  error,  and  preju- 
dice, and  priestcraft  had  blinded  so  that  they  dare 
not  think  as  men,  nor  look  on  the  sun-light  God  shed 
upon  the  mind. 


In  a  recent  work  of  L.  F.  Tasistro — "Random 
Shots  and  Southern  Breezes" — is  a  description  of  a 
slave  auction  at  New  Orleans,  at  which  the  auction- 
eer recommends  the  woman  on  the  stand  as  a  good 
Chrislia?!.' 

A   CHRISTIAN    SLAVE. 

BY  JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 

A  Christian— going,  gone  I 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image?  for  His  grace, 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place 

Hath,  in  her  suffering,  won? 

IVIy  God  I  Can  such  things  be? 
Hast  thou  not  said — that  whatso'er  is  done 
Unto  thy  weakest  and  thy  humblest  one, 

Is  even  done  to  Thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child  of  thy  pitying  love,  I  see  Thee  stand — 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking-band, 

Bound,  sold,  and  scourgoil  again' 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


23 


A  Christian  up  for  sale  ! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips,  o'ertask  her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong  and  shame; 

Her  patience  shall  not  fail  ! 

A  Jienfhen  hand  might  deal 
Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of  years; 
But  her  low  broken  prayer  and  nightly  tears, 

Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er. 
Thou  prudent  teacher  ; — tell  the  toiling  slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to  save 

The  outcast  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's //-ee  gospel,  from  the  simple  heart ; 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart, 

One  stern  command — Obey. 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market-price  of  human  flesh  :  and  while. 
On  thee,  the  pampered  guest,  the  planters  smile. 

Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  Thy  work  was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  SodTm,y?rs/  and  best 

Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

Oh  shame  !  The  Moslem  thrall 
Who  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet  kneels. 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla,  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  !  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeon  open,  and  hath        cit.e 

Their  inmates  into  day. 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching  eyes — 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market-price. 

And  rivet  on  his  chain. 

God  of  all  right  !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  thine  altar  stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  thee,  the  bloody  hand. 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong  ? 

Oh  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From  the  low  rice-swamps,  from  the  trader's  cell, 
From  the  black  slave-ships    foul   and   loathsome 
hell, 

And  coffle's  weary  chain, — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong. 
Rises  to  heaven  that  agonizing  cry. 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky. 

How  long  !  Oh  God  !   How  Ion?  ! 


SONG  WRITING. 


BY     JAMES     R.     LOWEL. 


The  songs  of  a  nation  arc  like  wild  flowers  press- 
ed, as  it  were,  by  chance,  between  the  blood-stained 
pages  of  history.       As  if  man's  heart  had  paused  for 
a  moment  in  its  dusty  march,  and  looked  back,  with 
a  flutter  of  the  pulse  and  a  tearful  smile,   upon  the 
simple  peacefuhiess  of  happier  and  purer  days,  gath- 
ering some  wayside  blossom  to  remind  it  of  child- 
hood and  home,  amid  the  crash  of  battle  or  the  din 
of  the  market.     Listening  to  these  strains  of  pastoral 
music,  we  are  lured  away  from  the  records  of  patri- 
otic frauds  of  a  cannibal  policy  which  devours  whole 
nations  with  the  refined  appetite  of  a  converted  and 
polished  Polyphemus  who  has  learned  to  eat  with  a 
silver  fork,  and  never  to  put  his  knife  in  his  mouth, 
— we  forget  the  wars  and  the  false  standards  of  honor 
which  have  cheated  men  into  wearing  the  fratricidal 
brand  of  Cain,  as  if  it  were  but  the  glorious  trace  of 
a  dignifying  wreath,  and  hear  the  rustle  of  the  leaves 
and    the    innocent   bleat    of  lambs,   and    the    low 
murmur  of  lovers  beneath  the  moon  of  Arcady,  or 
the  long  twilight  of  the  north.      The  earth  grows 
green  again,  and  flowers  spring  up  in  the  scorching 
footprints  of  Alaric,    but  where  love  hath  but  only 
smiled,  some  gentle  trace  of  it  remains  freshly  for- 
ever.    The  infinite  sends  its  messages  to  us  by  un- 
tutored  spirits,  and  the    lips  of  little  children,  and 
the  unboastful  beauty  of  simple  nature ;    not  with 
the  sound  of  trumpet,  and  the  tramp  of  mail-clad 
hosts.      Simplicity  and  commonness  are  the  proofs 
of  Beauty's    divinity.      Earnestly   and   beautifully 
touching  is  this  eternity  of  simple  feeling  from  age 
to  age, — this  trustfulness  with  which  the  heart  flings 
forth  to  the  wind  its  sybilline  leaves  to  be  gathered 
and  cherished  as  oracles   forever.      The  unwieldy 
current  of  life  whirls  and  writhes  and  struggles  mud- 
dily   onward,    and  there  in  midcurrent   the  snow- 
white    lilies   blow  in  unstained    safety,   generation 
after   generation.      The    cloud-capt   monuments   of 
mighty  kings  and  captains  crumble  into  dust  and 
mingle  with  the  nameless  ashes  of  those  who  reared 
them ;  but  we  know  perhaps  the  name  and  even  the 
color  of  the  hair  and  eyes  of  some  humble  shepherd's 
mistress  who  brushed  through  the  dew  to  meet  her 
lover's  kiss,   when  the  rising  sun  glittered  on  the 
golden  images  that  crowned  the  palace-roof  of  Semi- 
ramis.      Fleets  and  navies   are   overwhelmed  and 
forgotten,    but    some   tiny,    love-freighted    argossy 
launched    (like  those  of  the  Hindoo   maidens)    upon 
the  stream  of  time  in  days  now  behind  the  horizon, 
floats    down    to    us  with  its  frail  lamp  yet  burning 
Theories    for  which  great  philosophers  wore   their 
hearts  out,   histories  over  which  the  eyes  of  wise 
men  ached    for  weary  years,   creeds    for  which  hun- 
dreds  underwent   an    exulting   martyrdom,    poems 
which  had  once  quickened  the  beating  of  the  world's 
great  heart,  and  the  certainty   of  whose  deathless- 


24 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


ness  had  made  death  sweet  to  the  poet,  all  these 
have  mouldered  to  nothing,  but  some  word  of  love, 
some  outvent  of  a  sorrow  which  haply  filled  only 
one  pair  of  eyes  with  tears,  there  seem  to  have  be- 
come a  part  of  earth's  very  lifeblood.  They  live 
because  those  who  wrote  never  thought  whether 
they  would  live  or  not.  Because  they  were  the 
children  of  human  nature,  human  nature  has  ten- 
derly fostered  tliem,  while  children  only  begot  to 
perpetuate  the  foolish  vanity  of  their  father's  name, 
must  trust  for  their  support  to  such  inheritance  of 
livelihood  as  their  father  left  them.  There  are  no 
pensions,  and  no  retired  lists  in  the  pure  democracy 
of  nature  and  truth. 

A  good  song  is  as  if  the  poet  had  pressed  his  heart 
against  the  paper,  and  that  could  have  conveyed  its, 
hot,  tumultuous  throbbings  to  the  reader.  The  low, 
musical  rustle  of  the  wind  among  the  leaves  is  song- 
like, but  the  slow  unfolding  of  the  leaves  and  blos- 
soms, and  under  them  the  conception  and  ripening 
of  the  golden  fruit  through  long  summer  days  of  sun- 
shine and  of  rain,  are  like  the  grander,  but  not  more 
beautiful  or  eternal,  offspring  of  poesy.  The  song- 
writer must  take  his  place  somewhere  between  the 
poet  and  the  musician,  and  must  form  a  distinct  class 
by  himself.  The  faculty  of  writing  songs  is  certain- 
ly a  peculiar  one,  and  as  perfect  in  its  kind  as 
that  of  writing  epics.  They  can  only  be  written  by 
true  poets  ;  like  the  mistletoe  they  are  slender  and 
delicate,  but  they  only  grow  in  oaks.  Burns  is  as 
wholly  a  poet,  but  not  as  great  a  poet  as  Milton. 
Songs  relate  to  us  the  experience  and  hoarded  learn- 
ing of  the  feelings,  greater  poems  detail  that  of  the 
mind.  One  is  the  result  of  that  wisdom  which  the 
heart  keeps  by  remaining  young,  the  other  of  that 
which  it  gains  by  growing  old.  Songs  are  like  in- 
spired nursery-rhymes  which  makes  the  soul  child- 
like again.  The  best  songs  have  always  some  tinge 
of  a  mysterious  sadness  in  them.  They  seem  writ- 
ten in  the  night-watches  of  the  heart,  and  reflect  the 
spiritual  moonlight,  or  the  shifting  flashes  of  the 
northern-light,  or  the  trembling  lustre  of  the  stars, 
rather  than  the  broad  and  cheerful  benediction  of 
the  sunny  day.  Often  they  are  the  merest  breaths, 
vague  snatches  of  half-heard  music  which  fell  dream- 
ily on  the  ear  of  the  poet  while  he  was  listening  for 
grander  melodies,  and  which  he  hummed  over  after- 
wards to  himself,  not  knowing  how  or  where  he 
learned  them. 

A  true  song  touches  no  feeling  or  prejudice  of 
education,  but  only  the  simple,  original  elements  of 
our  common  nature.  And  perhaps  the  mission  of 
the  song-writer  may  herein  be  deemed  loftier  and 
diviner  than  any  other,  since  he  sheds  delight  over 
more  hearts,  and  opens  more  rude  natures  to  the 
advances  of  civilization,  refinement  and  a  softened 
humanity,  by  revealing  to  them  a  beauty  in  their 
own  simple  thoughts  and  feelings,  whicii  wins  them 
nnconsciou'-ly  to  a  dignified  reverence  for  their  own 


noble  capabilities  as  men.      He  who  aspires  to  the 
highest  triumphs  of  the  muse,  must  lock  at  first  for 
appreciation  and  sympathy  only  from  the  few,  and 
must  wait  till  the  progress  of  education  shall  have 
enlarged  the  number  and  quickened  the  sensibility 
and  apprehension  of  his    readers.      But  the  song- 
writer finds  his  ready  welcome  in  those  homespun, 
untuti.red  artistic  perceptions  which  are  the  birth- 
right of  every  human  soul,   and  which  are  the  sure 
pledges  of  the  coming  greatness  and  ennoblement  of 
the  race.      He  makes  men's  hearts  ready  to  receive 
the  teachings  of  his  nobler  brother.        He  is    not 
positively,   but  only  relatively  a  greater  blessing  to 
his  kind,  since,  in  God's  good  season,  by  the  sure 
advance  of  freedom,  all  men  shall  be  able  to  enjoy 
what  is  now  the  privilege  of  the  few,  and  Shakspeare 
and  Milton  shall  be  as  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  cot- 
tager and  the  craftsman  as  Burns  or  Beranger.     Full 
of  grandeur,  then,  and  yet  fuller  of  awful   responsi- 
bility is  the  calling  of  the  song-writer.      It  is  no 
wild  fancy  to  deem  that  he  may  shape  the  destiny  of 
coming  ages.      Like   an  electric   spark  his  musical 
thought  flits  glittering  from  heart  to  heart,  and  from 
lip  to  lip  through  the  land.      Luther's  noble  hymns 
made  more  and  truer   protestants  than  ever  did  his 
sermons  or  his  tracts.      The  song  hummed  by  some 
toiling  mother  to  beguile   the  long  monotony  of  the 
spinning-wheel,  may  have  tunied  the  current  of  her 
child's  thoughts  as  he  played  about  her  knee,  and 
given  the  world  a  hero  or  apostle.      We  know  not 
when  or  in  what  soil  God  may  plant  the  seeds  of 
our  spiritual  enlightenment   and  regeneration,    but 
we  may  be  sure  that  it  will  be  in  some  piece  of  clay 
common  to  all  mankind.     Some  heart  whose  simple 
feelings  call  the  whole  world  kin.     Not  from  mighty 
poet  or  deep-seeking  philosopher  will  come  the  word 
which  all  men  love  to  hear,  but  in  the  lowly  Naza- 
reth of  some  unlearned  soul,  in  the  rough  manger  of 
rudest,  humblest  sympathies,  shall  the  true  Messiah 
be  born  and  cradled.      In  the  inspired  heart,    not  in 
the  philosophic  intellect,  all  true  reforms  originate, 
and  it  is  over  this  that  the  song- writer  has  unbridled 
sway.      He   concentrates  the   inarticulate    murmur 
and  longing  of  a  trampled  people  into  the  lightning- 
flash  of  a  fiery  verse,  and,  ere  the  guilty  heart  of  the 
oppressor  has  ceased  to  flutter,  follows  the  deafening 
thunderclap  of  revolution.      He  gives  vent  to  his 
love  of  a  flower  or  a  maiden,  and  adds    so  much  to 
the  store  of  everyday  romance   in  the  heart  of  the 
world,    refining   men's  crude  perceptions  of  beauty 
and  dignifying  their  sweet  natural  affections.     Once 
it  was  ihe  fashion  to  write  pastorals,  but  he  teaches 
us  that  it  is  not  nature    to  make   all  men  talk  like 
rustics,    but    rather   to  show  that  one    heart  beats 
under  homespun  and  broadcloth,  and  that  it  alone  is 
truly  classical,  and  gives  eternity  to  verse. 

Songs  are  scarcely  amenable  to  the  common  laws 
of  criticism.  If  anything  were  needed  to  prove  the 
utter  foolishness  of  the  assertion,  that   that  only  is 


i 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


25 


good  poetry  which  can  be  reduced  to  good  prose,  we 
might  summon  as  witnesses  the  most  perfect  songs 
in  our  language.  The  best  part  of  a  song  lies  often 
not  at  all  in  the  words,  but  in  the  metre  perhaps,  or 
the  structure  of  the  verse,  in  the  wonderful  melody 
which  arose  of  itself  from  the  feeling  of  the  writer, 
and  which  unawares  throws  the  heart  into  the  same 
frame  of  thought.  Ben  Jonson  was  used  to  write 
his  poems  first  in  prose  and  then  translate  or  distil 
them  into  verse,  and  had  we  not  known  the  fact,  we 
might  have  almost  guessed  it  from  reading  some  of 
his  lyrics,  the  mechanical  structure  of  whose  verse 
is  as  different  from  the  spontaneous  growth  of  a  true 
song  (which  must  be  written  one  way  or  not  at  all) 
as  a  paper  flower  is  from  a  violet.  In  a  good  song,  the 
words  seem  to  have  given  birth  to  the  melody,  and 
the  melody  to  the  words.  The  strain  of  music 
seems  to  have  wandered  into  the  poet's  heart,  and  to 
have  been  the  thread  round  which  his  thoughts  have 
crystallized.  There  is  always  something  of  person- 
al interest  in  songs.  They  are  the  true  diary  of  the 
poet's  spiritual  life,  the  table-talk  of  his  heart. 
There  is  nothing  egotistical  in  them,  for  the  inward 
history  of  a  poet  is  never  a  commonplace  one,  and 
egotism  can  only  be  a  trait  of  little  minds,  its  disa- 
greeable quality  lying  wholly  in  this,  that  it  con- 
stantly thrusts  in  our  faces  the  egotist's  individuality, 
which  is  really  the  least  noticeable  thing  about  him. 
We  love  to  hear  wonderful  men  talk  of  themselves, 
because  they  are  better  worth  hearing  about  than 
anything  else,  and  because  what  we  learn  of  them  is 
not  so  much  a  history  of  self  as  a  history  of  nature, 
and  a  statement  of  facts  therein  which  are  so  many 
fingerposts  to  set  us  right  in  our  search  after  true 
spiritual  knowledge.  Songs  are  translations  from 
the  language  of  the  spiritual  into  that  of  the  natural 
world. 

As  love  is  the  highest  and  holiest  of  all  feelings, 
so  those  songs  are  best  in  which  love  is  the  essence. 
All  poetry  must  rest  on  love  for  a  foundation,  or  it 
will  only  last  so  long  as  the  bad  passions  it  appeals 
to,  and  which  it  is  the  end  of  true  poesy  to  root  out. 
If  there  be  not  in  it  a  love  of  man,  there  must  at 
least  be  a  love  of  nature  which  lies  next  below  it, 
and  which,  as  is  the  nature  of  all  beauty,  will  lead  its 
convert  upward  to  that  nobler  and  wider  sympathy. 
True  poetry  is  but  the  perfect  reflex  of  true  know- 
ledge, and  true  knowledge  is  spiritual  knowledge 
which  comes  only  of  love,  and  which,  when  it  has 
solved  the  mystery  of  one,  even  the  smallest  effluence 
of  the  eternal  beauty  which  surrounds  us  like  an  at- 
mosphere, becomes  a  clue  leading  to  the  heart  of  the 
seeming  labyrinth.  All  our  sympathies  lie  in  such 
close  neighborhood,  that  when  music  is  drawn  from 
one  string,  all  the  rest  vibrate  in  sweet  accord.  As 
in  the  womb  the  brain  of  the  child  changes  with  a 
steady  rise,  through  a  likeness  to  that  of  one  animal 
and  another  till  it  is  perfected  in  that  of  man,  the 
highest   animal,    so  in  this  life,    which  is  but  as  a 


womb  wherein  we  are  shaping  to  be  born  in  the  next, 
we  are  led  upward  from  love  to  love  till  we  arrive 
at  the  love  of  God  which  is  the  highest  love.  Many 
things  unseal  the  springs  of  tenderness  in  us  ere  the 
full  glory  of  our  nature  gushes  forth  to  the  one  be- 
nign spirit  which  interprets  for  us  all  mystery,  and 
is  the  key  to  unlock  all  the  most  secret  shrines  of 
beauty.  Woman  was  given  us  to  love  chiefly  to  this 
end,  that  the  sereneness  and  strength  which  the  soul 
wins  from  that  full  sympathy  with  one,  might  teach 
it  the  more  divine  excellence  of  a  sympathy  with  ail, 
and  that  it  was  man's  heart  only  which  God  shaped 
in  his  own  image,  which  it  can  only  rightly  emblem 
in  an  all-surrounding  love.  Therefore  we  put  first 
those  songs  which  tell  of  love,  since  we  see  in  them 
not  an  outpouring  of  selfish  and  solitary  passion,  but 
an  indication  of  that  beautiful  instinct  which  prompts 
the  heart  of  every  man  to  turn  toward  its  fellows 
with  a  smile,  and  to  recognise  its  master  even  in  the 
disguise  of  clay ;  and  we  confess  that  the  sight  of  the 
rudest  and  simplest  love-verses  in  the  corner  of  a 
village  newspaper,  oftener  bring  tears  of  delight  into 
our  eyes  than  awaken  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  In 
fancy  \yfe  see  the  rustic  lovers  wandering  hand  in 
hand,  a  sweet  fashion  not  yet  extinct  in  our  quiet 
New  England  villages,  and  crowding  all  the  past 
and  future  with  the  blithe  sunshine  of  the  present. 
The  modest  loveliness  of  Dorcas  has  revealed  to  the 
delighted  heart  of  Reuben,  countless  other  beauties, 
of  which,  but  for  her,  he  had  been  careless.  Pure 
and  delicate  sympathies  have  overgrown  protectingly 
the  most  exposed  part  of  his  nature,  as  the  moss 
covers  the  north  side  of  the  tree.  The  perception 
and  reverence  of  her  beauty  has  become  a  new  and 
more  sensitive  conscience  to  him,  which,  like  the 
wonderful  ring  in  the  fairy  tale,  warns  him  against 
every  danger  that  may  assail  his  innocent  self-respect. 
For  the  first  time  he  begins  to  see  something  more 
in  the  sunset  than  an  omen  of  tomorrow's  weather. 
The  flowers,  too,  have  grown  tenderly  dear  to  him 
of  a  sadden,  and,  as  he  plucks  a  sprig  of  blue  succo- 
ry from  the  roadside  to  deck  her  hair  with,  he  is  as 
truly  a  poet  as  Burns  when  he  embalmed  the  "  moun- 
tain daisy"  in  deathless  rhyme.  Dorcas  thrills  at 
sight  of  quivering  Hesperus  as  keenly  as  ever 
Sappho  did,  and,  as  it  brings  back  to  her,  she  knows 
not  how,  the  memory  of  all  happy  times  in  one,  she 
clasps  clcyser  the  brown,  toil-hardened  hand  which 
she  holds  in  hers,  and  which  the  heart  that  warms  it 
makes  as  soft  as  down  to  her.  She  is  sure  that  the 
next  Sabbath  evening  will  be  as  cloudlsss  and  happy 
as  this.  She  feels  no  jealousy  of  Reuben's  love  of 
the  flowers,  for  she  knows  that  only  the  pure  in  heart 
can  see  God  in  them,  and  that  they  will  but  teach 
him  to  love  better  the  wild-flower-like  beauties  in 
herself,  and  give  him  impulses  of  kindness  and. 
brotherhood  to  all.  Love  is  the  truest  radicalism, 
lifting  all  to  the  same  clear-aired  level  of  humble, 
thankful  humanity.  Dorcas  begins  to  think  that  her 
4 


26 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


childish  dream  has  come  true,  and  that  she  is  really 

an  enchanted  princess,  and  her  milkpans  are  forth- 
with changed  to  a  service  of  gold  plate  with  the 
family  arms  engraved  on  the  bottom  of  each,  the  de- 
vice being  a  great  heart,  and  the  legend,  Gud  gives, 
man  only  takes  aivny.  Her  taste  in  dress  has  grown 
wonderfully  more  refined  since  her  betrothal,  thongh 
she  never  heard  of  the  Paris  fashions,  and  never  had 
more  than  one  silk  gown  in  her  life,  that  one  being 
her  mother's  wedding  dress,  made  over  again.  Peu- 
ben  has  grown  so  tender-hearteJ,  that  he  thought 
there  might  be  some  good  even  in  "  Transcendenta- 
lism," a  terrible  dragon  of  straw,  against  which  he 
had  seen  a  lecturer  at  the  village  Lyceum  valorons- 
ly  enact  the  St.  George, — nay,  he  goes  so  far  as  to 
think  that  the  slavewomen  (black  though  they  be, 
and  therefore  not  deserving  so  much  happiness), 
cannot  be  quite  so  well  ofTas  his  sister  in  the  facto- 
ry, and  would  sympathize  with  them  if  the  consti- 
tution did  not  enjoin  all  good  citizens  not  to  do  so. 
But  we  are  wandering. — farewell,  Reuben  and  Dor- 
cas !  remember  that  you  can  only  fulfil  your  vow  of 
being  true  to  each  other  by  being  true  to  all,  and  be 
sure  that  death  can  but  unclasp  your  bodily  hands 
that  your  spiritual  ones  may  be  joined  the  more 
closely. 

The  songs  of  our  great  poets  are  unspeakably  pre- 
cious. In  them  find  vent  those  irrepressible  utter- 
ances of  homely  fireside  humanity,  inconsistent  with 
the  loftier  aim  and  self-forgetting  enthusiasm  of  a 
great  poem,  which  preserve  the  finer  and  purer  sen- 
sibilities from  wilting  and  withering  under  the  black 
frost  of  ambition.  The  faint  records  of  flitting  im- 
pulses, we  light  upon  them  sometimes  imbedded 
round  the  bases  of  the  basaltic  columns  of  the 
epic  or  the  drama,  like  heedless  insects  or  tender 
ferns  whieh  had  fallen  in  while  those  gigantic  crys- 
tals were  slowly  shaping  themselves  in  the  molten 
entrails  of  the  soul  all  a-glow  with  the  hidden  fires 
of  inspiration,  or  like  the  tracks  of  birds  from  far-off 
climes,  which  had  lighted  upon  the  ductile  mass  ere 
it  had  hardened  into  eternal  rock.  They  make  the 
lives  of  the  masters  of  the  lyre  encouragements  and 
helps  to  us,  by  teaching  us  humbly  to  appreciate 
and  sympathize  with,  as  men,  those  whom  we  should 
else  almost  have  worshipped  as  beings  of  a  higher 
order.  In  Shakspeare's  dreams,  we  watch  with  awe 
the  struggles  and  triumphs,  and  defeats  which  seem 
almost  triumphs,  of  his  unmatched  soul : — in  his 
songs  we  can  yet  feel  the  beating  of  a  simple,  warm 
heart,  the  mate  of  which  can  be  found  under  the  first 
homespun  frock  you  meet  on  the  high  road.  He, 
who  instead  of  carefully  plucking  the  fruit  from  tiie 
tree  of  knowledge  as  others  are  fain  to,  shook  down 
whole  showers  of  leaves  and  twigs  and  fruit  at  once  ; 
who  tossed  down  systems  of  morality  and  philoso- 
phy by  the  handful ;  who  wooed  nature  as  a  superior, 
and  who  carpeted  the  very  earth  beneath  tiie  deli- 
cate feet  of  his   fancy  with  such  llowers  of  jjocsy  as 


bloom  but  once  in  a  hundred  years, — this  vast  and 
divine  genius  in  his  songs  and  his  unequalled  sonnets, 
(which  are  but  epic  songs,  songs  written,  as  it  were, 
for  an  organ  or  rather  ocean  accompaniment),  shows 
all  the  humbleness,  and  wavering,  and  self-distrust, 
with  which  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  tempers  souls 
of  the  boldest  aspiration  and  most  unshaken  self- 
help,  as  if  to  remind  them  gently  of  that  brother- 
hood to  assert  and  dignify  whose  claims  they  were 
sent  forth  as  apostles. 

*  •  •  •  *  • 

The  true  way  of  judging  the  value  of  any  one  of 
the  arts  is  by  measuring  its  aptness  and  power  to 
advance  the  refinement,  and  sustain  the  natural  dig- 
nity of  mankind.  Men  may  show  rare  genius  in 
amusing  or  satirizing  their  fellow-beings,  or  in  rais- 
ing their  wonder,  or  in  giving  them  excuses  for  all 
manner  of  weakness  by  making  them  believe  that, 
although  their  nature  prompts  them  to  be  angels, 
Xhey  are  truly  no  better  than  worms, — but  only  to 
him  will  death  come  as  a  timely  guide  to  a  higher 
and  more  glorious  sphere  of  action  and  duty,  who 
has  done  somewhat,  however  little,  to  reveal  to  the 
soul  its  beauty,  and  to  awaken  in  it  an  aspiration 
towards  what  only  our  degradation  forces  us  to  call 
an  ideal  life.  It  is  but  a  half  knowledge  which 
sneers  at  utiliiurianism,  as  if  that  word  may  not 
have  a  spiritual  as  well  as  a  material  significance. 
He  is  indeed  a  traitor  to  his  better  nature  who  woiild 
persuade  men  that  the  use  of  anything  is  proportion- 
ed to  the  benefit  it  confers  upon  their  animal  part. 
If  the  spirit's  hunger  be  not  satisfied,  the  body  will 
not  be  at  ease,  though  it  slumber  in  Sybaris  and 
feast  with  Apicius.  It  is  the  soul  that  makes  men 
rich  or  poor,  and  he  who  has  given  a  nation  a  truer 
conception  of  beauty,  which  is  the  body  of  truth,  as 
love  is  its  spirit,  has  done  more  for  its  happiness 
and  to  secure  its  freedom,  than  if  he  had  doubled  its 
defences  or  its  revenue.  He  who  has  taught  a  man 
to  Icok  kindly  on  a  flower  or  an  insect,  has  thereby 
made  him  sensible  of  the  beauty  of  tenderness  to- 
ward men,  and  rendered  charity  and  lovingkindness 
so  much  the  more  easy,  and  so  much  the  more 
necessary  to  him.  To  make  life  more  reverend  in 
the  eyes  of  the  refined  and  educated,  may  be  a  noble 
ambition  in  the  scholar,  or  the  poet,  but  to  reveal  to 
the  poor  and  ignorant,  and  degraded,  those  divine 
arms  of  the  eternal  beauty  which  encircle  them  lov- 
ingly by  day  and  night,  to  teach  them  that  they 
also  are  children  of  one  Father,  and  the  nearer  haply 
to  his  heart  for  the  very  want  and  wretchedness 
which  half-persuaded  them  they  were  orphan  and 
forgotten,  tills,  truly  is  the  task  of  one  who  is  great- 
er than  the  poet  or  the  scholar,  namely,  a  true  Man, 
— and  this  belongs  to  the  song-writer.  The  poet  as 
he  wove  his  simple  rhymes  of  love,  or  the  humble 
delights  of  the  poor,  dreamed  not  how  many  toil- 
worn  eyes  brightened,  and  how  many  tyrant  hearts 
softened   with  reviving  memories  of  childhood  and 


VOICES      OF     THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


27 


innocence.  That  which  alono  can  make  men  truly 
happy  and  exalted  in  nature,  is  freedom  ;  and  free- 
dom of  spirit,  without  which  mere  bodily  liberty  is 
but  vilest  slavery,  can  only  bo  achieved  by  culti- 
vating m«n's  sympathy  with  the  beautiful.  The 
heart  that  makes  free  only  is  free,  and  the  tyrant 
always  is  truly  the  bondman  of  his  slaves.  The 
longing  of  every  soul  is  for  freedom,  which  it  gains 
only  by  helping  other  souls  to  theirs.  The  power 
of  the  song-writer  is  exalted  above  others  in  this, 
that  his  words  bring  solace  to  the  lowest  ranks  of 
men,  loosing  their  spirits  from  thraldom  by  cherish- 
ing to  life  again  their  numbed  and  deadened  sympa- 
thies, and  bringing  them  forth  to  expand  and  purify 
in  the  unclouded,  impartial  sunshine  of  humanity. 
Here  truly  is  a  work  worthy  of  angels,  whose  bright- 
ness is  but  the  more  clearly  visible  when  they  are 
ministering  in  the  dark  and  benighted  hovels  of  life, 
and  whose  wings  grow  to  a  surer  and  more  radiant 
strength,  while  they  are  folded  to  enter  these  hum- 
blest tenements  of  clay,  than  when  they  are  out- 
spread proudly  for  the  loftiest  and  most  exulting 
flight.  The  divinity  of  man  is  indeed  most  wonder- 
ful and  glorious  in  the  mighty  and  rare  soul,  but 
how  much  more  so  is  it  in  the  humble  and  common 
one,  and  how  far  greater  a  thing  is  it  to  discern  and 
reverence  it  there.  We  hear  men  often  enough  speak 
of  seeing  God  in  the  stars  and  flowers,  but  they  will 
never  be  truly  religious  till  they  learn  to  behold 
him  in  each  other  also,  where  he  is  most  easily,  yet 
most  rarely  discovered.  But  to  have  become  bless- 
ed enough  to  lind  him  in  anything,  is  a  sure  pledge 
of  finding  him  in  all,  and  many  times,  perhaps,  some 
snatch  of  artless  melody  floating  over  the  land,  as  if 
under  the  random  tutelage  of  the  breeze,  may  have 
given  the  hint  of  its  high  calling  to  many  a  soul 
which  else  had  lain  torpid  and  imbruted.  Great 
principles  work  out  their  fulfilment  with  the  slight- 
est and  least  regarded  tools,  and  destiny  may  chance 
to  speak'to  us  in  the  smell  of  a  buttercup  or  the 
music  of  the  commonest  air. 


CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT. 

BY    LYDIA    M,\RTA    CHILD. 

To-day,  I  cannot  write  of  beauty  ;  for  I  am  sad 
and  troubled.  Heart,  head,  and  conscience,  are  all 
in  battle-array  against  the  savage  customs  of  my 
time.  By  and  by,  the  law  of  love,  like  oil  upon  the 
waters,  will  calm  my  surging  sympathies,  and  make 
the  current  flow  more  calmly,  though  none  the  less 
deep  or  strong.  But  to-day,  do  not  ask  me  to  love 
governor,  sheriff"  or  constable,  or  any  man  who  de- 
fends capital  punishment.  I  ought  to  do  it ;  for 
genuine  love  enfolds  even  murderers  with  its  bless- 
ing.     By  to-morrow,  I  think  I  can  remember  them 


without  bitterness;  but  to-day,  I  cannot  love  them; 
on  my  soul,  I  cannot. 

We  were  to  have  had  an  execution  yesterday ; 
but  the  wretched  prisoner  avoided  it  by  suicide. 
The  gallows  had  been  erected  for  several  hours,  and 
with  a  cool  refinement  of  cruelty,  was  hoisted  be- 
fore the  window  of  the  condemned  ;  the  hangman 
was  already  to  cut  the  cord  ;  marshals  paced  back 
and  forth,  smoking  and  whistling;  spectators  were 
waiting  impatiently  to  see  whether  he  would  '  die 
game.'  Printed  circulars  had  been  handed  abroad 
to  summon  the  number  of  witnesses  required  by 
law  : — '  You  are  respectfully  invited  to  witness  the 
execution  of  John  C.  Colt.'  I  trust  some  of  them 
are  preserved  for  museums.  Specimens  should  be 
kept,  as  relics  of  a  barbarous  age,  for  succeeding 
generations  to  wonder  at.  They  might  be  hung  up 
in  a  frame  ;  and  the  portrait  of  a  New  Zealand  Chief, 
picking  the  bones  of  an  enemy  of  his  tribe,  would 
be  an  appropriate  pendant. 

This  bloody  insult  was  thrust  into  the  hands  of 
some  citizens,  who  carried  hearts  under  their  vests, 
and  they  threw  it  in  tattered  fragments  to  the  dogs 
and  swine,  as  more  fitting  witnesses  than  human 
beings.  It  was  cheering  to  those  who  have  faith  in 
human  progress,  to  see  how  many  viewed  the  sub- 
ject in  this  light.  But  as  a  general  thing,  the  very 
spirit  of  murder  was  rife  among  the  dense  crowd, 
which  thronged  the  place  of  execution.  They  were 
swelling  with  revenge,  and  eager  for  blood.  One 
man  came  all  the  way  from  New  Hampshire,  on 
purpose  to  witness  the  entertainment ;  thereby 
showing  himself  a  likely  subject  for  the  gallows, 
whoever  he  may  be.  Women  deemed  themselves 
not  treated  with  becoming  gallantry,  because  tickets 
of  admittance  were  denied  them ,-  and  I  think  it 
showed  injudicious  partiality;  for  many  of  them 
can  be  taught  murder  by  as  short  a  lesson  as  any 
man,  and  sustain  it  by  arguments  from  Scripture,  as 
ably  as  any  theologian.  However  ihey  were  not 
admitted  to  this  edifying  exhibition  in  the  great 
school  of  public  morals  ;  and  had  only  the  slim  com- 
fort of  standing  outside,  in  a  keen  November  wind, 
to  catch  the  first  toll  of  the  bell,  which  would  an- 
nounce that  a  human  brother  had  been  sent  strug- 
gling into  eternity  by  the  hand  of  violence.  But 
while  the  multitude  stood  with  open  watches,  and 
strained  ears  to  catch  the  sound,  and  the  mar- 
shals smoked  and  whistled,  and  the  hangman  walked 
up  and  down,  waiting  for  his  prey,  lo  I  word  was 
brought  that  the  criminal  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  ! 
He  had  asked  one  half  hour  alone  to  prepare  his  mind 
for  departure  ;  and  at  the  end  of  that  brief  interval, 
he  was  found  with  a  dagger  thrust  into  his  heart. 
The  tidings  were  received  with  fierce  mutterings 
of  disappointed  rage.  The  throng  beyond  the  walls 
were  furious  to  see  him  with  their  own  eyes,  to  be 
sure  that  he  was  dead.  But  when  the  welcome  news 
met  my  ear,  a  tremendous  load  was  taken  from  my 


1 


28 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


heart.  I  had  no  chance  to  analyze  right  and  wrong  ; 
for  over  all  thought  and  feeling  flowed  impulsive 
joy,  that  this  '  Christian'  conrimunity  were  cheated 
of  a  hanging.  They  who  had  assembled  to  commit 
legalized  murder,  in  cold  blood,  with  strange  confu- 
sion of  ideas,  were  unmindful  of  their  own  guilt, 
while  they  talked  of  his  suicide  a.s  a  crime  equal  to 
that  for  which  he  was  condemned.  I  am  willing  to 
leave  it  between  him  and  his  God.  For  myself,  I 
would  rather  have  the  burden  of  it  on  my  own  soul, 
than  take  the  guilt  of  those  who  would  have  execut- 
ed a  fellow  creature.  He  was  driven  to  a  fearful 
extremity  of  agony  and  desperation.  He  was  pre- 
cisely in  the  situation  of  a  man  on  board  a  burning 
ship,  who  being  compelled  to  face  death,  jumps  into 
the  waves,  as  the  least  painful  mode  of  the  two. 
But  they,  who  thus  drove  him  '  to  walk  the  plank,' 
made  cool,  deliberate  preparations  to  take  life,  and 
with  inventive  cr\ielty  sought  to  add  every  bitter 
drop  that  could  be  added  to  the  dreadful  cup  of  ven- 
geance. 

To  me,  human  life  seems  so  sacred  a  thing,  that 
its  violent  termination  always  fills  me  with  horror, 
whether  perpetrated  by  an  individual  or  a  crowd; 
whether  done  contrary  to  law  and  custom,  or  ac- 
cording to  law  and  custom.  "Why  John  C.  Colt 
should  be  condemned  to  an  ignominious  death  for  an 
act  of  resentment  altogether  unpremeditated,  while 
men,  who  deliberately,  and  with  malice  afore- 
thought, go  out  to  murder  another  for  some  insult- 
ing word,  are  judges,  and  senators  in  the  land,  and 
favorite  candidates  for  the  President's  chair,  is  more 
than  I  can  comprehend.  There  is,  to  say  the  least, 
a  strange  inconsistency  in  our  customs. 

At  the  same  moment  that  I  was  informed  of  the 
death  of  the  prisoner,  I  heard  that  the  prison  was  on 
fire.  It  was  soon  extinguished,  but  the  remarkable 
coincidence  added  not  a  little  to  the  convulsive  ex- 
citement of  the  hour.  I  went  with  a  friend  to  look 
at  the  beautiful  spectacle  ;  for  it  was  exceedingly 
beautiful.  The  fire  had  kindled  at  the  very  top  of 
the  cupola,  the  wind  was  high,  and  the  flames  rush- 
ed upward,  as  if  the  angry  spirits  below  had  escap- 
ed on  fiery  wings.  Heaven  forgive  the  feelings 
that,  for  a  moment  mingled  with  my  admiration  ol 
that  beautiful  conflagration  I  Society  had  kindled 
all  around  me  a  bad  excitement,  and  one  of  tlie  in- 
fernal sparks  fell  into  my  heart.  If  this  was  the 
eflect  produced  on  me,  who  am  by  nature  tender- 
hearted, by  principle  opposed  to  all  retaliation,  and 
by  social  position  secluded  from  contact  with  evil, 
what  must  it  have  been  on  the  minds  of  rowdies  and 
desperadoes  ?  The  eflTect  of  executions  on  all 
brought  within  their  influence  is  evil,  and  nothing 
but  evil.  For  a  fortnight  past,  this  whole  city  has 
been  kept  in  a  state  of  corroding  excitement,  either 
of  hope  or  fear.  The  stern  pride  of  the  prisoner 
left  little  in  his  peculiar  case  to  appeal  to  the  sym- 
pjthies  of  society  ;    yet  the  instincts  of  our  connnon 


nature  rose  up  against  the  sanguinary  spirit  mani- 
fested toward  him.  The  public  were,  moreover, 
divided  in  opinion  with  regard  to  the  legal  construc- 
tion of  his  crime ;  and  in  the  keen  discussion  of 
legal  distinctions,  moral  distinctions  became  woful- 
ly  confused.  Each  day  hope  and  fear  alternated  ; 
the  natural  effect  of  all  this  was  to  have  the  whole 
thing  regarded  as  a  game,  in  which  the  criminal 
might,  or  might  not,  become  the  winner  ;  and  every 
experiment  of  this  kind  shakes  public  respect  for  the 
laws,  from  centre  to  circumference.  Worse  than 
all  this  was  the  horrible  amount  of  diabolical  pas- 
sion excited.  The  hearts  of  men  were  filled  with 
murder ;  they  gloated  over  the  thoughts  of  ven- 
geance, and  were  rabid  to  witness  a  fellow-creature's 
agony.  They  complained  loudly  that  he  was  not  to 
be  hung  high  enough  for  the  crowd  to  see  him. 
'  What  a  pity  !'  exclaimed  a  woman,  who  stood  near 
me,  gazing  at  the  burning  tower ;  'they  will  have 
to  give  him  two  hours  more  to  live.'  'Would  yon 
feel  so,  if  he  were  your  soti  ?'  said  I.  Her  counte- 
nance changed  instantly.  She  had  not  before  realiz- 
ed that  every  criminal  was  somehody''s  son. 

As  we  walked  homeward,  we  encountered  a  depu- 
ty sheriff;  not  the  most  promising  material,  certain- 
ly, for  lessons  on  humanity  ;  but  to  him  we  spoke 
of  the  crowd  of  savage  faces,  and  the  tones  of  hatred, 
as  obvious  proof  of  the  bad  influence  of  capital  pun- 
ishment. '  I  know  that,'  said  he  ;  '  but  I  don't  see 
how  we  could  dispense  with  it.  Now  suppose  we 
had  fifty  murderers  shut  up  in  prison  for  life,  instead 
of  hanging  'em ;  and  suppose  there  should  come  a 
revolution  ;  what  an  awful  thing  it  would  be  to  have 
fifty  murderers  inside  the  prison,  to  be  let  loose 
upon  the  community  I'  '  There  is  another  side  to 
that  proposition,'  we  answered  ;  'for  every  crimi- 
nal you  execute,  you  make  a  hundred  murderers 
outside  the  prison,  each  as  dangerous  as  would  be  the 
one  inside.'  He  said  perhaps  it  was  so  ;  and  went 
his  way. 

As  for  the  punishment  and  the  terror  of  such  do- 
ings, they  fall  most  keenly  on  the  best  hearts  in  the 
community.  Thousands  of  men,  as  well  as  women, 
had  broken  and  startled  sleep  for  several  nights  pre- 
ceding tliat  dreadful  day.  Executions  always  ex- 
cite a  luiiversal  shudder  among  the  innocent,  the 
humane,  and  the  wise-hearted.  It  is  the  voice  of 
God,  crying  aloud  within  us  against  the  wickedness 
of  this  savage  custom.  Else  why  is  it  that  the  in. 
stinct  is  so  universal  ? 

The  last  conversation  I  bad  with  the  late  William 
Ladd  made  a  strong  impression  on  my  mind.  While 
he  was  a  sea-captain,  lie  occasionally  visited  Sjwin, 
and  once  witnessed  an  execution  there.  He  said 
that  no  man,  however  low  and  despicable,  "would 
consent  to  perform  the  office  of  hangman;  and  who- 
ever should  dare  to  suggest  sxich  a  thing  to  a  decent 
man,  would  have  had  his  brains  blown  out.  This 
feeling  was  so  strong,  and  so  universal,  that  the  only 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


29 


way  they  could  procure  an  executioner,  was  to  offer 
a  condemned  criminal  his  own  life,  if  he  would  con- 
sent to  perform  the  vile  and  hateful  office  on  another. 
Sometimes  executions  were  postponed  for  months, 
because  there  was  no  condemned  criminal  to  perform 
the  office  of  hangman.  A  fee  was  allotted  by  law 
to  the  wretch  who  did  perform  it,  but  no  one  w^ouhl 
run  the  risk  of  touching  his  polluted  hand  by  giving 
it  to  him ;  therefore,  the  priest  threw  the  purse  as 
far  as  possible  ;  the  odious  being  ran  to  pick  it  up, 
and  hastened  to  escape  from  the  shuddering  execra. 
tions  of  all  who  had  known  him  as  a  hangman. 
Even  the  poor  animal  that  carried  the  criminal  and 
his  coffin  in  a  cart  to  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  was  an 
object  of  universal  loathing.  He  was  cropped  and 
marked,  that  he  might  be  known  as  the  '  Hang- 
man's Donkey.'  No  man,  however  great  his  needs, 
would  use  this  beast,  either  for  pleasure  or  labour; 
and  the  peasants  were  so  averse  to  having  him  pol- 
lute their  fields  with  his  footsteps,  that  when  he  was 
seen  approaching,  the  boys  hastened  to  open  the 
gates,  and  drive  him  off  with  hisses,  sticks,  avid 
stones.  Thus  does  the  human  heart  cry  out  aloud 
against  this  wretched  practice  ! 

A  tacit  acknowledgment  of  the  demoralizing  in- 
fluence of  executions  is  generally  made,  in  the  fact 
that  they  are  forbidden  to  be  public,  as  formerly. 
The  scene  is  now  in  a  prison  yard,  instead  of  open 
fields,  and  no  spectators  are  admitted  but  officers  of 
the  law,  and  those  especially  invited.  Yet  a  favour- 
ite argument  in  favour  of  capital  punishment  has 
been  the  terror  that  the  spectacle  inspires  in  the 
breast  of  evil  doers.  I  trust  the  two  or  three  hun- 
dred singled  out  from  the  mass  of  New  York  popu- 
lation, by  particular  invitation,  especially  the  judges 
and  civil  officers,  will  feel  the  full  weight  of  the 
compliment.  During  the  French  Revolution,  public 
executions  seemed  too  slow,  and  Fouquier  proposed 
to  put  the  guillotine  under  cover,  where  batches  of 
a  hundred  might  be  despatched  with  a  few  specta- 
tors. '  Wilt  thou  demoralize  the  guillotine  ?  '  asked 
Callot,  reproachfully. 

That  bloody  guillotine  was  an  instrument  of  law, 
as  well  as  our  gallows  ;  and  what,  in  the  name  of 
all  that  is  villanous,  has  not  been  established  by 
law  ?  Nations,  clans,  and  classes,  engaged  in  fierce 
struggles  of  selfishness  and  hatred,  mads  laws  to 
strengthen  each  other's  power,  and  revenge  each 
other's  aggressions.  By  slow  degrees,  always 
timidly  and  reluctantly,  society  emerges  out  of  the 
barbarisms  with  which  it  thus  became  entangled. 
It  is  but  a  short  time  ago  that  men  were  hung  in 
this  country  for  stealing.  The  last  human  brother 
who  suffered  under  this  law,  in  Massachusetts,  was 
so  wretchedly  poor,  that  when  he  hung  on  the  gal- 
lows, his  rags  fluttered  in  the  wind.  What  think 
you  was  the  comparative  guilt,  in  the  eye  of  ^od, 
between  him  and  those  who  hung  him  ?  Yet,  it 
was  according  to  law,-    and  men  cried  out  as    vo- 


ciferously then  as  they  now  do,  that  it  was  not  safe 
to  have  the  law  changed.  Judge  McKean,  governor 
of  Pennsylvania,  was  strongly  opposed  to  the  aboli- 
tion of  death  for  stealing,  and  the  disuse  of  the  pil- 
lory and  whipping-post.  He  was  a  very  humane 
man,  but  had  the  common  fear  of  changing  old  cus- 
toms. '  It  will  not  do  to  abolish  these  salutary 
restraints,' said  the  old  gentleman;  '  it  will  break 
up  the  foundations  of  society.'  Those  relics  of  bar- 
barism were  banished  long  ago  :  but  the  foundations 
of  society  are  nowise  injured  thereby. 

The  testimony  from  all  parts  of  the  world  is  in- 
variable and  conclusive,  that  crime  diminishes  in 
proportion  to  the  mildness  of  the  laws.  The  real 
danger  is  in  having  laws  on  the  statute-book  at  vari- 
ance with  the  universal  instincts  of  the  human  heart, 
and  thus  tempting  men  to  continual  evasion.  The 
evasion,  even  of  a  bad  law,  is  attended  with  many 
mischievous  results ;  its  abolition  is  always  safe. 

In  looking  at  Capital  Punishment  in  its  practical 
bearings  on  the  operation  of  justice,  an  observing 
mind  is  at  once  struck  with  the  extreme  uncertainty 
attending  it.  The  balance  swings  hither  and 
thither,  and  settles,  as  it  were,  by  chance.  The 
strong  instincts  of  the  heart  teach  juries  extreme 
reluctance  to  convict  for  capital  offences.  They 
will  avail  themselves  of  every  loophole  in  the  evi- 
dence, to  avoid  the  bloody  responsibility  imposed 
upon  them.  In  this  way,  undoubted  criminals 
escape  all  punishment,  until  society  becomes 
alarmed  for  its  own  safety,  and  insists  that  the  next 
victim  shall  be  sacrificed.  It  was  the  misfortune 
of  John  C.  Colt,  to  be  arrested  at  a  time  when  the 
popular  wave  of  indignation  had  been  swelling 
higher  and  higher,  in  consequence  of  the  impimity 
with  which  Robinson, White,  and  Jewell  had  escaped. 
The  wrath  and  jealousy  which  they  had  excited 
was  visited  upon  him,  and  his  chance  for  a  merciful 
verdict  was  greatly  diminished.  The  scale  now 
turns  the  other  way ;  and  the  next  offender  will 
probably  receive  very  lenient  treatment,  though  he 
should  not  have  so  many  extenuating  circumstances 
in  his  favour. 

Another  thought  which  forces  itself  upon  the 
mind  in  consideration  of  this  subject  is  the  danger 
of  convicting  the  innocent.  IMurder  is  a  crime 
which  must  of  course  be  committed  in  secret,  and 
therefore  the  proof  must  be  mainly  circumstantial. 
This  kind  of  evidence  must  be  in  its  nature  so  pre- 
carious, that  men  have  learned  great  timidity  in 
trusting  to  it.  In  Scotland,  it  led  to  so  many  ter- 
rible mistakes,  that  they  long  ago  refused  to  convict 
any  man  of  a  capital  offence,  upon  circumstan- 
tial evidence. 

A  few  years  ago  a  poor  German  came  to  New 
York,  and  took  lodgings,  where  he  was  allowed  to  do 
his  cooking  in  the  same  room  with  the  family.  The 
husband  and  wife  lived  in  a  perpetual  quarrel.  One 
day  the  German  came  into  the  kitchen  with  a  clasp 


30 


VOICES     OF     THE     r  R  U  E  -  II E  A  R  T  E  D 


knife  anJ  a  pan  of  potatoes,  and  began  to  prepare 
them  for  his  dinner.  Tho  ipiarrelsome  couple  were 
in  a  more  violent  altercation  than  usual ;  but  he  sat 
with  his  back  toward  them,  and  being  ignorant  of 
their  language,  felt  in  no  danger  of  being  involved 
in  their  disputes.  But  the  woman,  with  a  sudden 
and  unexpected  movement,  snatched  the  knife  from 
his  hand,  and  plunged  it  in  her  husband's  heart. 
She  had  sufticient  presence  of  mind  to  rush  into  the 
street,  and  scream  murder.  The  poor  foreigner,  in 
the  meanwhile,  seeing  the  wounded  man  reel,  sprang 
forward  to  catch  him  in  his  arms,  and  drew  out  the 
knife.  People  from  the  street  crowded  in,  and 
found  him  with  the  dying  man  in  his  arms,  the 
knife  in  his  hand,  and  blood  upon  his  clothes.  The 
wicked  woman  swore,  in  the  most  positive  terms, 
that  he  had  been  fighting  with  her  husband,  and  had 
stabbed  liim  with  a  knife  he  always  carried.  The 
unfortunate  German  knew  too  little  English  to  un- 
derstand her  accusation,  or  to  tell  his  own  story. 
He  was  dragged  off  to  prison,  and  the  true  state  of 
the  case  was  made  known  through  an  interpreter  ; 
but  it  was  not  believed.  Circumstantial  evidence 
was  exceedingly  strong  against  the  accused,  and  the 
real  criminal  swore  unhesitatingly  that  she  saw  him 
commit  the  murder.  He  was  executed,  nowith- 
standing  the  most  persevering  efforts  of  his  lawyer, 
John  Anthon,  Esq.,  whose  convictions  of  the  man's 
innocence  were  so  painfully  strong,  that  from  that 
day  to  this,  he  has  refused  to  have  any  connexion 
with  a  capital  case.  Some  years  after  this  tragic 
event,  the  woman  died,  and,  on  her  death-bed, 
confessed  her  agency  in  the  diabolical  transaction  ; 
but  her  poor  victim  could  receive  no  benefit  from 
this  tardy  repentance  ;  society  had  wantonly  thrown 
away  its  power  to  atone  for  the  grievous  wrong. 

Many  of  my  readers  will  doubtless  recollect  the 
tragical  fate  of  Burton,  in  Missouri,  on  which  a 
novel  was  founded,  which  still  circulates  in  the  li- 
braries. A  young  lady,  belonging  to  a  genteel  and 
very  proud  family,  in  Missouri,  was  beloved  by  a 
young  man  named  Burton;  but  unfortunately  her 
affections  were  fixed  on  another  less  worthy.  He 
left  her  with  a  tarnished  reputation.  She  was  by 
nature  energetic  and  high-spirited,  her  family  w^ere 
proud,  and  she  lived  in  the  midst  of  a  society  which 
considered  revenge  a  virtue,  and  named  it  honor. 
Misled  by  this  popular  sentiment,  and  her  own  ex- 
cited feelings,  she  resolved  to  repay  her  lover's 
treachery  with  death.  But  she  kept  her  secret  so 
well,  that  no  one  suspected  her  purpose,  though  she 
purchased  pistols,  and  practiced  with  tliem  daily. 
Mr.  Burton  gave  evidence  of  his  strong  attachment 
by  renewing  his  attentions  when  the  world  looked 
most  coldly  ujion  her.  His  generous  kindness  won 
her  heart,  but  tlie  softening  influence  of  love  did  not 
lead  her  to  forego  the  dreadful  pnrjwse  she  had 
formed.  She  watche<l  (or  a  favorable  opportunity, 
and  shot  ht-r  betrayer  when   no  one   was  near,  to 


witness  the  horrible  deed.  Some  little  incident 
excited  the  suspicion  of  Burton,  and  he  induced  her 
to  coiifcas  to  him  the  whole  transaction.  It  was 
obvious  enough  that  suspicion  would  fasten  upon 
him,  the  well-known  lover  of  her  who  had  been  so 
deeply  injured.  He  was  arrested,  but  succeeded  in 
persuading  her  that  he  was  in  no  danger.  Circum- 
stantial evidence  was  fearfully  against  him,  and  he 
soon  saw  that  his  chance  was  doubtful ;  but  with 
affectionate  magnanimity,  he  concealed  this  from 
her.  He  was  convicted  and  condemned.  A  short 
time  before  the  execution,  he  endeavord  to  cut  his 
throat ;  but  his  life  was  saved  for  the  cruel  purpose 
of  taking  it  away  according  to  the  cold-blooded 
barbarism  of  the  law.  Pale  and  wounded,  he  was 
hoisted  to  the  gallows  before  the  gaze  of  a  Christian 
community. 

The  guilty  cause  of  all  this  was  almost  frantic, 
when  she  found  that  he  had  thus  sacrificed  himself 
to  save  her.  She  immediately  published  the  whole 
history  of  her  wrongs,  and  her  revenge.  Her  keen 
sense  of  wounded  honour  was  in  accordance  with 
public  sentiment,  her  wrongs  excited  indignation 
and  compassion,  and  the  knowledge  that  an  inno- 
cent and  magnanimous  man  had  been  so  brutally 
treated  excited  a  general  revulsion  of  popular  feel- 
ing. No  one  W'ished  for  another  victim,  and  she 
was  left  unpunished,  save  by  the  dreadful  records 
of  her  memory. 

Few  know  how  numerous  are  the  cases  where  it 
has  subsequently  been  discovered  that  the  innocent 
suffered  instead  of  the  guilty.  Yet  one  such  case  in 
an  age  is  surely  enough  to  make  legislators  pause 
before  they  cast  a  vote  against  the  abolition  of 
Capital  Pimishment. 

But  many  say  <  the  Old  Testament  requires  blood 
for  blood.'  So  it  requires  that  a  woman  should  be 
put  to  death  for  adultery;  and  men  for  doing  work 
on  the  Sabbath ;  and  children  for  cursing  their  pa- 
rents ;  and  '  If  an  ox  were  to  push  with  his  horn, 
in  time  past,  and  it  hath  been  testified  to  his  owner, 
and  he  hath  not  kept  him  in,  but  that  he  hath  killed 
a  man  or  a  woman,  the  ox  shall  be  stoned,  and  his 
owner  also  shall  be  put  to  death.'  The  commands 
given  to  the  Jews,  in  the  old  dispensation,  do  not 
form  the  basis  of  any  legal  code  in  Christendom. 
They  could  not  form  the  basis  of  any  civilized  code. 
If  one  command  is  binding  on  our  consciences,  all 
are  binding ;  for  they  all  rest  on  the  same  authority. 

They  who  feel  bound  to  advocate  capital  punish- 
ment for  murder,  on  account  of  the  law  given  to 
Moses,  ought,  for  the  same  reason,  to  insist  that 
children  should  be  executed  for  striking  or  cursing 
their  parents. 

'  It  was  said  by  thorn  of  old  time,  an  eye  for  on 
eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth ;  but  /  say  unto  you  re- 
sist not  evil.'  If  our  'eyes  were  lifted  up,' we 
should  see,  not  Moses  and  F.lias,  but  Joms  only. 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED 


31 


MOMENTS. 

BY    KICIIAKD  MONCKTON    MILNES. 

I  lie  in  a  heavy  trance, 

With  a  world  of  dream  without  mc  ; 
Shapes  of  shadows  dance 

In  waving  bands  about  me. 
But  at  times  some  mystic  things 

Appear  in  this  phantom  lair, 
That  almost  seem  to  me  visitings 

Of  Truth  known  elsewhere — 
The  world  is  wide  ;  these  things  are  small ; 
They  may  be  nothing,  but  they  are  all. 

A  prayer  in  an  hour  of  pain 

Begun  in  an  undertone, 
Then  lowered,  as  it  would  fain 

Be  heard  by  the  heart  alone ; — 
A  throb  when  the  soul  is  entered 

By  a  light  that  is  lit  above. 
Where  the  God  of  nature  is  centered, 
The  beauty  of  love — 
The  world  is  wide ;   these  things  are  small  ; 
They  may  be  nothing,  but  they  are  all. 

A  sense  of  an  earnest  will 

To  help  the  lowly  living. 
And  a  terrible  heart-thrill 

If  you  have  no  power  of  giving ; — 
An  arm  of  aid  to  the  weak  ; — 

A  friendly  hand  to  the  friendless  ; — 
Kind  words  so  short  to  speak. 

But  whose  echo  is  endless — 
The  world  is  wide  ;   these  things  are  small ; 
They  may  be  nothing,  but  they  are  all. 

The  moment  we  think  we  have  learnt 

The  love  of  the  All-wise  One, 
By  which  we  could  stand  unburnt 

On  the  ridge  of  the  seething  sun  ; — 
The  moment  we  grasp  at  the  clue, 

Long-lost  and  strangely  riven, 
Which  guides  our  souls  to  the  True, 
And  the  Poet  to  Heaven — 
The  world  is  wide  ;  these  things  are  small 
They  may  be  nothing,  but  they  are  all. 


A  CHRISTIAN  HOME. 

BY   R.  W.  EVANS. 

Oh  great,  unspeakable  is  the  blessing  of  a  godly 
home.  Here  is  the  cradle  of  the  Christian.  Hence 
he  sallies  forth  for  encounter  with  the  world,  armed 
at  all  points,  disciplined  in  all  the  means  of  resist- 
ance, and  full  of  hope  and  victory  under  his  heavenly 
leader.  Hither  he  ever  afterwards  turns  a  dutiful 
and  affectionate  look,  regarding  it  as  the  type  and 
pledge  of  another  home.  Hither,  too,  when  sore 
wounded    in    the  conflict,  he  resorts    to   repair   his 


drooping  vigor.  Here  when  abandoned  by  the  sel- 
fish sons  of  this  world,  he  finds,  as  in  a  sanctuary, 
the  children  of  God  ready  with  open  arms  to  re. 
ceive  him.  And  here  the  returning  prodigal,  en- 
folded in  the  embrace  of  those  who  know  not  of  the 
impurities  of  the  world  with  which  he  has  been 
mixing,  feels  all  at  once  his  heart  burst  with  shame 
and  repentance.  Merciful  God,  what  a  city  of  ref- 
uge hast  thou  ordained  in  the  Christian  Home  ! 

A  true  Christian  Home  can  scarcely  be  said  to 
die.  It  may  disappear  from  the  eyes  of  flesh,  but 
its  better  parts,  those  which  are  truly  valuable,  be- 
long also  to  our  everlasting  home.  It  has  but  to 
throw  off'  the  elements  of  flesh,  and  it  becomes  at 
once  that  spiritual  home  to  which  eternal  bliss  is 
appended.  All  its  occupations  are  preparations  for 
another  life  ;  all  its  actions  converge  to  that  point ; 
its  society  originating  in  the  flesh,  has  long  ago  been 
established  in  the  spirit.  Its  inmates  regard  each 
other  as  companions  of  the  life  to  come,  and  deride 
the  power  of  any  separation  which  this  world  can 
effect.  They  look  with  contemptuous  pity  upon  the 
miserable  expedient  for  union  after  death  to  which 
worldlings  resort,  the  laying  up  their  bones  in  a 
costly  vault ;  thus  making  a  mockery  of  home  in  a 
disgusting  assemblage  of  mouldering  skeletons.  Be- 
ing one  in  spirit,  whether  in  the  same  grave  or  with 
half  the  world  between,  they  are  still  in  union. 
Rectory  of  Valehead. 


DEMAGOGUE    ARTS. 

BY  LORD  BROUGH.\M. 

Lord  Brougham  concludes  his  sketches  of  the 
celebrated  English  radical,  John  Wilkes,  with  the 
following  just  and  forcible  passage  on  the  arts  of  the 
Demagogues  : 

"The  fall,  the  rapid  and  total  declension  of 
Wilkes'  fame — the  utter  oblivion  into  which  his 
very  name  has  passed  for  all  purposes  save  the  re- 
membrance of  his  vices — the  very  ruins  of  his  repu- 
tation, no  longer  remaining  in  our  political  history 
—  this  affords  also  a  salutary  lesson  to  the  followers 
of  the  multitude — those  who  may  court  applause  of 
the  hour,  and  regulate  their  conduct  towards  the 
people,  not  by  their  ow^n  sound  and  conscientious 
opinions  of  what  is  right,  but  by  the  desire  to  gain 
fame  by  doing  what  is  pleasing,  and  to  avoid  giving 
the  displeasure  that  arises  from  telling  wholesome, 
though  unpalatable  truths.  Never  man  more  pan- 
dered to  the  appetites  of  the  mob,  than  Wilkes; 
never  political  pimp  gave  more  uniform  content- 
ment to  his  employers.  Having  the  moral  and 
sturdy  English,  and  not  the  voluble  and  versatile 
Irish,  to  deal  with,  he  durst  not  do  or  .say  as  he 
chose  himself:  but  was  compelled  to  follow  that  he 
might  seem  to  lead,  or  at   least  to  go  two  steps 


32 


VOICES  OF   THE  TRUE   HEARTED. 


with  his  followers,  that  he  might  get  them  to  go 
three  with  him.  He  dared  not  deceive  them  grossly, 
clumsily,  openly,  impudently — dared  not  tell  them 
opposite  stories — in  the  same  breath — give  them 
one  advice  to-day,  and  the  contrary  tomorrow — 
pledge  himself  to  a  dozen  things  at  one  and  the  same 
time ;  then  come  before  them  with  every  pledge 
unredeemed,  and  ask  their  voices,  and  ask  their 
money  on  the  credit  of  as  many  other  pledges,  for 
the  succeeding  half  year — all  this,  with  the  obsti- 
nate and  jealous  people  of  England,  was  out  of  the 
question;  it  could  not  have  passed  for  six  weeks. 
But  he  committed  as  great,  if  not  as  gross,  frauds 
upon  them  ;  abused  their  confidence  as  entirely,  if 
not  so  shamelessly ;  catered  for  their  depraved  appe- 
tites in  all  the  base  dainties  of  sedition  and  slander, 
and  thoughtless  violence,  and  unreasonable  demands, 
instead  of  using  his  influence  to  guide  their  judg- 
ment, improve  their  taste,  reclaim  them  from  bad 
courses,  and  better  their  condition  by  providing  for 
their  instruction.  The  means  by  which  he  retained 
their  attachment  were  disgraceful  and  vile — like  the 
hypocrite,  his  whole  life  was  a  lie.  The  tribute 
which  his  unruly  appetites  kept  him  from  paying  to 
private  morals,  his  dread  of  the  mob,  or  his  desire 
to  use  them  for  his  selfish  purposes,  made  him 
yield  to  public  virtue :  and  he  never  appeared  be- 
fore the  world  without  the  mask  of  patriotic  enthu- 
siasm or  democratic  fury  ; — he  who,  in  the  recesses 
of  Mendenham  Abbey,  and  before  many  witnesses, 
gave  the  eucharist  to  an  ape,  or,  prostituted  the 
printing  press  to  multiply  copies  of  a  production 
that  would  dye  with  blushes  the  cheek  of  an  im- 
pure. 

It  is  the  abuse,  no  doubt,  of  such  popular  courses, 
that  we  should  reprobate.  Popularity  is  far  from 
being  contemptible  ;  it  is  often  an  honourable  ac- 
quisition ;  when  duly  earned,  always  a  test  of  good 
done  or  evil  resisted.  But  to  be  of  a  jnire  and  ge- 
nuine kind,  it  must  have  one  stamp — the  security  of 
one  safe  and  certain  die  ;  it  must  be  the  popularity 
that  foUows  good  actions,  not  that  which  is  run 
after.  Nor  can  we  do  a  greater  service  to  the  peo- 
ple themselves,  or  read  a  more  wholesome  lesson  to 
the  race,  above  all,  of  rising  statesmen,  than  to 
mark  how  much  the  mock-patriot,  the  mob-seeker, 
the  parasite  of  the  giddy  multitude,  falls  into  the 
very  worst  faults  for  which  jjopular  men  are  wont 
the  most  loudly  to  condemn,  and  most  heartily  to 
despise,  the  courtly  fawners  upon  princes.  Flattery, 
indeed!  obsequiousness  I  timeserving!  What  cour- 
tier of  them  all  ever  took  more  pains  to  soothe  an 
irritable  or  to  please  a  capricious  prince,  than 
Wilkes,  to  assauge  the  anger  or  gain  the  favor  by 
humoring  the  prejudices  of  the  mob?  Falshood, 
truly  !  intrigue  !  manceuvre  !  Where  did  ever  titled 
suitor  for  promotion  lay  his  plots  more  cunningly, 
or  spread  more  wide  his  net,  or  plant  more  pensive- 
ly in    the  fire    those  irons  by  which  the  waiters  on 


royal  bounty  forge  to  themselves  and  their  country 
chains,  that  they  also  may  make  the  ladder  they 
are  to  mount  by,  than  the  patriot  of  the  city  did  to 
delude  the  multitude,  whose  slave  he  made  himself, 
that  he  might  be  rewarded  with  their  sweet  voices, 
and  so  rise  to  wealth  and  to  power  ?  When  he 
penned  the  letter  of  cant  about  administering  jus- 
tice, rather  than  join  a  procession  to  honor  the  ac- 
cession of  at  prince  whom  in  a  private  petition  he 
covered  over  thick  and  threefold  with  the  slime  of 
his  flattery,  he  called  himself  a  "mana-uvre."  When 
he  delivered  a  rant  about  liberty  before  the  reverent 
judges  of  the  land — lie  knew  full  well  that  he  was 
not  delighting  those  he  addressed,  but  the  mob  out 
of  doors,  on  whose  ears  the  trash  was  to  be  echoed 
back.  When  he  spoke  a  speech  in  parliament,  of 
which  no  one  heard  a  word,  and  said  aside  to  a 
friend  who  urged  the  fruitlessness  of  the  attempt  at 
making  the  house  listen — "■  Speak  it  I  must,  for  it 
has  been  printed  in  the  newspapers  this  half  hour" 
— he  confessed  that  he  was  acting  a  false  part  in 
one  place  to  compass  a  real  object  in  another; 
as  thoroughly  as  ever  minister  did  when  affecting 
by  smiles  to  be  well  in  his  prince's  good  graces, 
before  the  multitude,  all  the  while  knowing  that 
he  was  receiving  a  royal  rebuke.  When  he  and 
one  confederate,  in  the  private  room  of  a  tavern, 
issued  a  declaration,  beginning,  "we  the  people," 
and  signed  "  by  the  order  of  the  meeting," — he 
practised  as  gross  a  fraud  upon  that  people,  as  ever 
peer  or  parasite  did,  when  affecting  to  pine  for  the 
prince's  smiles,  and  to  be  devoted  to  his  pleasure, 
in  all  the  life  they  led  consecrated  to  the  fiurther- 
ance  of  their  own." 


AN    EVENING    SONG. 

BY  FRANCES  K.  BUTLER. 

Good  night,  love ! 
May  heaven's  brightest  stars  watch  over  thee  ! 
Good  angels  spread  their  wings,  and  cover  thee ! 
And  through  the  night, 

So  dark  and  still. 
Spirits  of  light 

Charm  thee  from  ill ! 
My  heart  is  hovering  round  thy  dwelling-place, 
Good  night,  dear  love  !  God  bless  thee  with  his  grace  I 

Good  night,  love  I 
Soft  lullabies  the  night  winds  sing  to  thee  ! 
And  on  its  wings  sweet  odours  bring  to  thee  I 
And  in  thy  dreaming 

May  all  things,  dear, 
With  gentle  seeming, 
Come  smiling  near! 
My  knees  are  bowed,  my  hands  are  clasped  in  prayer, 
Good  night,  dear  love! — God  keep  thee  in  his  care'. 


VOICES  OE  THE  TRUE  HEARTED. 


HOo 


LILIAS  GRIEVE. 

BY      PROFESSOR      WILSON. 

I  There  was  fear  and  melancholy  in  all  the  glens 
j  and  valleys  that  lay  stretching  around,  or  down  upon 
j  St.  Mary's  Loch,  for  it  was  the  time  of  religious 
I  persecution.  3Iany  a  sweet  cottage  stood  untenant- 
ed on  the  hillside  and  in  the  hollow  ;  some  had  felt 
the  fire,  and  been  consumed,  and  violent  hands  had 
torn  off  the  turf  roof  from  the  green  shealing  of  the 
shepherd.  In  the  wide  and  deep  silence  and  solita- 
riness of  the  mountains,  it  seemed  as  if  human  life 
vv-^as  nearly  extinct.  Caverns  and  clefts  in  which 
the  fox  had  kenneled,  were  now  the  shelter  of  Chris^ 
tian  souls — and  when  a  lonely  figure  crept  steal- 
ingly  from  one  hiding  place  to  another,  on  a  visit  of 
love  to  some  hunted  brother  in  faith,  the  crows 
would  hover  over  him,  and  the  hawk  shriek  at  hu- 
man steps,  now  rare  in  the  desert.  When  the  babe 
was  born,  there  might  be  none  near  to  baptize  it ;  or 
the  minister,  driven  from  his  kirk,  perhaps  poured 
the  sacramental  water  upon  its  face  from  some  pool 
in  the  glen,  whose  rocks  guarded  the  persecuted  fa- 
mily from  the  oppressor.  Bridals  now  w'ere  unfre- 
quent,  and  in  the  solemn  sadness  of  love  many 
died  before  their  time,  of  minds  sunken,  and  of  bro- 
ken hearts.  "WTiite  hair  was  on  heads  long  before 
they  were  old  ;  and  the  silver  locks  of  ancient  men 
were  often  ruefully  soiled  in  the  dust,  and  stained 
with  their  martyred  blood. 

But  this  is  the  dark  side  of  the  picture.  For  even 
in  their  caves  were  these  people  happy.  Their  chil- 
dren were  with  them,  even  like  the  wild  flowers 
that  blossomed  all  about  the  entrances  of  their  dens. 
And  when  the  voice  of  psalms  rose  up  from  the  pro- 
found silence  of  the  solitary  place  of  rocks,  the  ear 
of  God  was  open,  and  they  knew  that  their  prayers 
and  praises  were  heard  in  heaven.  If  a  child  was 
born,  it  belonged  unto  the  I'aithful ;  if  an  old  man 
died,  it  was  in  the  religion  of  his  forefathers.  The 
hidden  powers  of  their  souls  were  brought  forth  into 
the  light,  and  they  knew  the  strength  that  was  in 
them  for  these  days  of  trial.  The  thoughtless  be- 
came sedate — the  wild  were  tamed-^the  unfeeling 
were  made  compassionate — hard  hearts  were  soften- 
ed, and  the  wicked  saw  the  error  of  their  ways. 
AH  deep  passion  purifies  and  strengthens  the  soul, 
and  so  it  was  now.  Now  was  shown  and  put  to  the 
proof,  the  stern,  austere,  impenetrable  strength  of 
men.  that  would  neither  bend  nor  break — the  calm, 
serene  determination  of  matrons,  who,  with  meek 


eyes,  and  unblanched  cheeks,  met  the  scowl  of  the 
murderer — the  silent  beauty  of  maidens,  who,  with 
smiles,  received  their  death— and  the  mysterious 
courage  of  children,  who,  in  the  inspiration  of  inno- 
cence and  spotless  nature,  kneeled  down  among  the 
dew-drops  on  the  green  sward,  and  died  fearlesly  by 
their  parents'  sides.  Arrested  were  they  at  their 
work,  or  in  their  play,  and  with  no  other  bandage 
over  their  eyes,  but  haply  some  clustering  ringlets 
of  their  sunny  hair,  did  many  a  sweet  creature  of 
twelve  summers,  ask  just  to  be  allowed  to  say  her 
prayers,  and  then  go,  unappalled,  from  her  cottage- 
door  to  the  breast  of  her  Redeemer. 

In  those  days  had  old  Samuel  Grieve  and  his 
spouse  suffered  sorely  for  their  faith.  But  they  left 
not  their  own  house,  willing  to  die  there,  or  to  be 
slaughtered  whenever  God  should  so  appoint.  They 
were  now  childless  ;  but  a  little  grand-daughter, 
about  ten  years  old.  lived  with  them,  and  she  was 
an  orphan.  The  thought  of  death  was  so  familiar 
to  her,  that  although  sometimes  it  gave  a  slight 
quaking  throb  to  her  heart  in  its  glee,  yet  it  scarcely 
impaired  the  natural  joyfulness  of  her  girlhood,  and 
often,  unconsciously,  after  the  gravest  or  the  sadest 
talk  with  her  okl  parents,  would  she  glide  off  with 
a  lightsome  step,  a  blithe  face,  and  a  voice  hum- 
ming sweetly  some  cheerful  tune.  The  old  people 
looked  often  upon  her  in  her  happiness,  till  their  dim 
eyes  filled  with  tears — while  the  grandmother  said, 
"  If  this  nest  were  to  be  destroyed  at  last,  and  our 
heads  in  the  mould,  who  would  feed  this  young  bird 
in  the  wild,  and  where  would  she  find  shelter, in 
which  to  fauld  her  bonnie  wings  ?" 

Lilias  Grieve  was  the  shepherdess  of  a  small 
flock,  among  the  green  pastures  at  the  head  of  St. 
Mary's  Loch,  and  up  the  hill-side,  and  over  into 
some  of  the  little  neighboring  glens.  Sometimes 
she  sat  in  that  beautiful  church-yard,  with  hersheep 
lying  scattered  around  her  upon  the  quiet  graves — 
where,  on  still,  sunny  days,  she  could  see  their  sha- 
dows in  the  water  of  the  Loch,  and  herself  sitting 
close  to  the  low  walls  of  the  house  of  God.  She 
had  no  one  to  speak  to,  but  her  Bible  to  read — and 
day  after  day  the  rising  sun  beheld  her  in  growing 
beauty,  and  innocence  that  could  not  fade,  happy  and 
silent  as  a  fairy  upon  the  knowe,  with  the  blue 
heavens  over  her  head,  and  the  blue  lake  smiling  at 
her  feet. 

"My  Fairy,"  was  the  name  she  bore  by  the  cot- 
tage fire,  where  the  old  people  were  gladdened  by 
her  glee,   and   turned   away   from  all   melancholy 


34 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


thoughts.  And  it  was  a  name  that  suited  sweet  Li- 
lias  well — for  she  was  clothed  in  a  garb  of  green, 
and  often,  in  her  joy,  the  green  graceful  plants  that 
grew  among  the  hills  were  wreathed  round  her  hair. 
So  was  she  dressed  on  Sabbath-day,  watching  her 
flock  at  a  considerable  distance  from  home,  and  sing- 
ing to  herself  a  psalm  in  the  solitary  moor — when 
in  a  moment  a  party  of  soldiers  were  upon  amount 
on  the  opposite  side  of  a  narrow  dell.  Lilias  was  in- 
visible as  a  green  linnet  upon  the  grass — but  her 
sweet  voice  had  betrayed  her — and  then  one  of  the 
Boldiers  cau^xht  the  wild  gleam  of  her  eyes,  and  as 
she  sprung  frightened  to  her  leet,  he  eallcd  out,  "  A 
roe — a  roe — see  how  she  bounds  along  the  bent  I" 
and  the  ruffian  took  aim  at  the  child  with  his  mus- 
ket, half  in  sport,  half  in  ferocity.  Lilias  kept  ap- 
pearing and  disappearing,  while  she  flew  as  on 
wings,  across  a  piece  of  black  heathery  moss,  full  of 
pits  and  hollows— and  still  the  soldier  kept  his  mus- 
ket at  its  aim.  His  comrades  called  to  him  to  hold 
his  hand,  and  not  shoot  a  poor  little  innocent  child — 
but  he  at  length  fired — and  the  bullet  was  heard  to 
whiz  past  her  fern-crowned  head,  and  to  strike  a 
bank  which  she  was  about  to  ascend.  The  child 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  looked  back,  and  then 
bounded  away  over  the  smooth  turf— till,  like  a  cu- 
shat, she  dropt  into  a  little  birchen  glen,  and  disap. 
peared.  Not  a  sound  of  her  feet  was  heard — she 
seemed  to  have  sunk  into  the  ground— and  the  sol- 
dier stood,  without  any  effort  to  fo  low  her,  gazing 
through  the  smoke  toward  the  spot  where  she  had 
vanished. 

A  sudden  superstition  assailed  the  hearts  of  the 
party,  as  they  sat  down  together  upon  a  ledge  of 
stone.  "  Saw  you  her  face.  Riddle,  as  my  ball  went 
whizzing  past  her  ear — curse  me,  if  she  be  not  one 
of  those  hill-fairies,  else  she  had  been  as  dead  as  a 
herring — but  I  believe  the  bullet  glanced  ofTher  yel- 
low hair,  as  against  a  buckler."  "  By  St.  George, 
it  was  the  act  of  a  gallows-rogue  to  fire  upon  the 
creature,  fairy  or  not  fairy — and  you  deserve  the 
weight  of  this  hand — the  hand  of  an  Englishman, 
you  brute,  for  your  cruelty  !'" — and  uprose  the  speak- 
er to  put  his  threat  into  execution,  when  the  other 
retreated  some  distance,  and  began  to  load  his  mus- 
ket— but  the  Englishman  ran  upon  him,  and  with  a 
Cumberland  gripe  and  trip,  laid  him  upon  the  hard 
ground  with  a  force  that  drove  the  breath  out  of  his 
body,  and  left  him  stunned  and  almost  insensible. 
I' That  serves  him  right,  Allan  Sleigh — shiver  my 
timbers,  if  I  would  fire  upon  a  petticoat.  As  to 
fairies,  why,  look  ye,  'tis  a  likely  place  enow  for 
such  creatures — if  this  be  one,  it  is  the  first  I  ever 
saw,  but  as  to  your  mermaids,  I  have  seen  a  score  of 
them,  at  different  times,  when  I  was  at  sea.  As  to 
shooting  them,  no — no — we  never  tried  that,  or  the 
ship  would  have  gone  to  the  bottom.  There  have 
I  seen  them  sitting  on  a  rock,  with  a  looking-glass, 
combing  their  hair,  that  wrapped  round  them  liks  a 


net,  and  then  down  into  a  coral  cave  in  a  jiffey  to 
their  mermans — for  mermaid,  fairy,  or  mere  flesh 
and  blood  women,  the)'  are  all  the  same  in  that  re- 
spect— take  my  word  for  it." 

The  fallen  ruffian  now  rose,  somewhat  humbled, 
and  sullenly  sat  down  among  the  rest.  "  Why," 
quoth  Allan  Sleigh — "I  wager  you  a  week's  pay, 
you  don't  venture  fifty  yards,  without  your  musket, 
down  yonder  shingle  where  the  fairy  disappeared  ;" 
and  the  wager  being  accepted,  the  half-drunken  fel- 
low rushed  on  toward  the  head  of  the  glen,  and  was 
heard  crushing  away  through  the  shrubs.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  returned,  declaring,  with  an  oath,  that 
he  had  seen  her  at  the  mouth  of  a  cave,  where  no 
human  foot  could  reach,  standing  with  her  hair  all 
on  fire,  and  an  angry  countenance,  and  that  he  had 
tumbled  backward  into  the  burn,  and  been  nearly 
drowned.  <■  Drowned  !"  cried  Allan  Sleigh.  "Ay, 
drowned — why  not  ?  a  hundred  yards  down  that  bit 
glen,  the  pools  are  as  black  as  pitch,  and  deep  as 
hell — and  the  water  roars  like  thunder — drowned — 
why  not,  j'ou  English  son  of  a  deer  stealer  ?"  "Why 
not — because  who  was  ever  drowned  that  was  born 
to  be  hanged  ?"  Aud  that  jest  caused  universal 
laughter — as  it  is  always  sure  to  do,  often  as  it  may 
he  repeated  in  a  company  of  ruffians,  such  is  felt  to 
be  its  perfect  truth  and  unanswerable  simplicity. 

After  an  hour's  quarrelling,  and  gibing,  and  mu- 
tiny, this  disorderly  band  of  soldiers  proceeded  on 
their  way  down  into  the  head  of  Yarrow,  and  there 
saw,  in  the  solitude,  the  house  of  Samuel  Grieve. 
Thither  they  proceeded  to  get  some  refreshment,  and 
ripe  for  any  outrage  that  any  occasion  might  suggest. 
The  old  man  and  his  wife  hearing  a  tumult  of  many 
voices  and  many  feet,  came  out,  and  were  immedi- 
ately saluted  with  many  opprobrious  epithets.  The 
hut  was  soon  rifled  of  any  small  articles  of  wearing 
apparel,  and  Samuel,  without  emotion,  set  before 
them  whatever  provisions  he  had — butter,  cheese, 
bread,  and  milk — and  hoped  they  would  not  be  too 
hard  upon  old  people,  who  were  desirous  of  dying, 
as  they  had  lived,  in  pccce.  Thankful  were  they, 
in  their  parental  hearts,  that  their  little  Lilias  was 
among  the  hills— and  the  old  man  trusted,  that  if 
she  returned  before  the  soldiers  were  gone,  she  would 
see  from  some  distance  their  muskets  on  the  green 
before  the  door,  and  hide  herself  among  the  brakens. 

The  soldiers  devoured  their  repast  with  many 
oaths,  and  much  hideous  and  obscene  language, 
which  it  was  sore  against  the  old  man's  soul  to  hear 
in  his  own  hut ;  but  he  said  nothing,  for  that  would 
have  been  wilfully  to  sacrifice  his  life.  At  last  one 
of  the  party  ordered  him  to  return  thanks  in  words 
impious  and  full  of  blasphemy,  which  Samuel  calm- 
ly refused  to  do,  beseeching  them,  at  the  same  time, 
for  the  sake  of  their  own  souls,  not  so  to  offend  their 
great  and  bountiful  Preserver.  "  Confound  the  old 
canting  covenanter — I  will  prick  him  with  my  bayo- 
net if  he  won't  say  grace;"  and  the  blood  trickled 


VOICES  OF   THE    TRUE   HEARTED. 


i**         ^w    rrvsir  4 


or   THB 


t5 


A 


XTY 


down  the  old  man's  cheek,  from  a  slight  wound  on 
liis  forehead.  The  siijht  of  it  seemed  to  awaken 
the  dormant  blood-thirstiness  in  the  tiger-heart  of 
the  soldier,  who  now  swore  that  if  the  old  man  did 
not  instantly  repeat  the  words  after  him,  he  would 
shoot  him  dead.  And,  as  if  cruelty  were  contagi- 
ous, almost  the  whole  party  agreed  that  the  demand 
was  but  reasonable,  and  the  old  hypocritical  knave 
must  preach  or  perish.  "  Damn  him,"  cried  one  of 
them,  in  a  fury,  "here  is  the  Word  of  God,  a  great 
musty  Bible,  stinkingof  greasy  black  leather,  worse 
than  a  whole  tanyard.  If  he  won't  speak,  I  will  gag 
him  with  a  vengeance.  Here,  old  Mr.  Peden  the  pro- 
phet, let  me  cram  a  few  chapters  of  St.  Luke  down 
your  maw.  St.  Luke  was  a  physician,  I  believe. 
Well,  here  is  a  dose  of  him.  Open  your  jaws." 
And  with  these  words,  he  tore  a  handful  of  leaves 
out  of  the  Bible,  and  advanced  towards  the  old  man, 
from  whose  face  his  terrilied  w^ife  was  now  wiping 
off  the  blood. 

Samuel  Grieve  was  nearly  fourscore  ;  but  his  sin- 
ews were  not  yet  relaxed,  and  in  his  younger  days 
he  had  been  a  man  of  great  strength.  When,  there- 
fore, the  soldier  grasped  him  by  the  neck,  the  sense 
of  receiving  an  indignity  from  such  a  slave,  made 
his  blood  boil,  and,  as  if  his  youth  had  been  renew- 
ed, the  gray-haired  man,  with  one  blow,  felled  the 
ruffian  to  the  floor 

That  blow  sealed  his  doom.  There  was  a  fierce 
tumult  and  yelling  of  wrathful  voices,  and  Samuel 
Grieve  was  led  out  to  die.  He  had  witnessed  such 
butchery  of  others— and  felt  that  the  hour  of  his 
martyrdom  was  come.  "As  thou  didst  reprove 
Simon  Peter  in  the  garden,  when  he  smote  the  High 
Priest's  servant,  and  saidst,  '  The  cup  which  my 
Father  hath  given  me,  shall  I  not  drink  it !'  So, 
now,  oh,  my  Redeemer,  do  thou  pardon  me,  thy  frail 
and  erring  follower,  and  enable  me  to  drink  this 
cup!"  With  these  words  the  old  man  knelt  down, 
unbidden  ;  and,  after  one  solemn  look  to  Heaven, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  folded  his  hands  across  his 
breast. 

His  wife  now  came  forward,  and  knelt  down  be- 
side the  old  man.  "  Let  us  die  together,  Samuel ; 
tut,  oh!  what  will  become  of  our  dear  Lilias?" 
<<  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  said 
her  husband,  opening  not  his  eyes,  but  talcing  her 
hand  into  his,  "  Sarah — be  not  afraid."  "Oh!  Sam- 
uel, I  remember  at  this  moment,  these  words  of 
Jesxis,  which  you  this  morning  read — 'Forgive 
them,  Father,  they  know  not  what  they  do.'  "  "  We 
are  all  sinners  together,"  said  Samuel,  with  a  loud 
voice — "we.  two  old  gray-headed  people,  on  our 
knees,  and  about  to  die,  both  forgive  you  all,  as  we 
hope  ourselves  to  be  forgiven.  We  are  ready — be 
merciful,  and  do  not  mangle  us.  Sarah,  be  not 
afraid." 

It  seemed  that  an  angel  was  sent  down  from 
Heaven  to  save  the  lives  of  these  two  old  gray-head- 


ed folks.  With  hair  floating  in  sunny  light,  and  ._t>' 
seemingly  wreathed  with  flowers  ol"  heavenly  azure, 
with  eyes  beaming  lustre,  and  yet  streatfting  tears, 
with  white  arms  extending  in  their  beauty,  and  mo- 
tion gentle  and  gliding  as  the  sunshine  when  a  cloud 
is  rolled  away,  came  on  over  the  meadow  befor  the 
hut,  the  same  green-robed  creature  that  had  startled 
the  soldiers  with  her  singing  on  the  moor,  and  crying 
loudly  but  still  sweetlj',  "  God  sent  me  hither  to 
save  their  lives."  She  fell  down  beside  them  as 
they  knelt  together ;  and  then,  lifting  up  her  head 
from  the  turf,  fixed  her  beautiful  face,  instinct  with 
fear,  love,  hope,  and  the  spirit  of  prayer,  upon  the 
eyes  of  the  men  about  to  shed  that  innocent  blood. 

They  all  stood  heart-stricken,  and  the  execution- 
ers flung  down  their  muskets  upon  the  green-sward. 
"  God  bless  you,  kind,  good  soldier,  for  this,''  ex- 
claimed the  child,  now  weeping  and  sobbing  with 
joy  ;  "  ay — ay,  you  will  be  all  happy  to-night,  when 
you  lie  d')wn  to  sleep.  If  you  have  any  little  daugh- 
ters or  sisters  like  me,  God  will  love  them  for  your 
mercy  to  us,  and  nothing,  till  you  return  home,  will 
hurt  a  hair  of  their  heads.  Oh  !  I  see  now  that  sol- 
diers are  not  so  cruel  as  we  say  !"  "  Lilias,  your 
grandfather  speaks  unto  you; — his  last  words  are — 
leave  us — leave  us — for  they  are  going  to  put  us  to 
death.  Soldiers,  kill  not  this  little  child,  or  the  wa- 
ters of  the  loch  will  rise  up  and  drown  the  sons  of 
perdition.  Lilias,  give  us  each  a  kiss — and  then  go 
into  the  house." 

The  soldiers  conversed  together  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  seemed  now  like  men  themselves  condemned  to 
die.  Shame  and  remorse  for  their  coward  cruelty, 
smote  them  to  the  core — and  they  bade  them  that 
were  still  kneeling  to  rise  up  and  go  their  ways — 
then,  forming  themselves  into  regular  order,  one 
gave  the  word  of  command,  and,  marching  off",  they 
soon  disappeared.  The  old  man,  his  wife,  and  little 
Lilias,  continued  for  some  time  on  their  kuees  in 
prayer,  and  then  all  three  went  into  their  hut — the 
child  between  them — and  a  withered  hand  of  each 
laid  upon  its  beautiful  and  its  fearless  head. 


THE    CRY    OF    THE    CHILDREN. 

BY    ELIZ\BErH    BARRETT     BARRETT. 

The  following  was  inspired  hy  the  facts  elicited 
by  investigating  the  condition  of  the  children  em- 
ployed in  the  mines,  factories,  &c.  of  Great  Britain. 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  0  my  brothers ! 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 
They  are   leaning  their  young  heads  against  their 
And  Ihat  cannot  stop  their  tears.         [mothers, 
The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows, 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  in  the  shadows, 

■I'he  young  flowers  are  blowing  from  the  West ; 


36 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers  ! 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  I 
They  are  weeping  in  the  play-time  of  the  others, 

In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  their  sorrow, 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow, 

Which  is  lost  in  long  ago, 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost, 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost ! 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers  ! 

Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their  mothers, 

In  our  happy  fatherland  ! 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  simken  faces, 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see  ; 
For  the  Man's  grief  untimely  draws  and  presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  Infancy. 
"  Your  old  Earth,"  they  say,  "  is  very  dreary! 

Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  "  are  very  weak! 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek  ! 
Ask  the  old  why  they  weep,  and  not  the  children. 

For  the  outside  earth  is  cold. 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our  bewildering, 

And  the  graves  are  for  the  old. 

"  True,"  say  the  children,  "  it  may  happen 

That  we  may  die  before  our  time! 
Little  Alice  died  last  year, — the  grave  is  shapen 

Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime. 
We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take  her. 

Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close  clay  ! 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will  wake  her. 

Crying — "  Get  up,  little  Alice,  it  is  day  !" 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave  in  sun  and  shower, 

With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never  cries  ; 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should  not  know 
her, 
For  the  new  smile  which  has  grown  within  her 
eyes. 
For  merry  go  her  moments,  lulled  and  stilled  in 

The  shroud,  by  the  kirk  chime  I 
«'  It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  children, 
<'  That  we  die  before  our  time  I" 

Alas,  the  young  children  !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have  ! 
They  are  binding  up  their  hearts  arway  from  breaking. 

With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from  the  city. 

Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes  do  ! 
Pluck  your  handfullsof  the  meadow  cowslips  pretty, 
Laugh  aloud  to  feel  your  fingers  let  them  through! 
But  the  children  say,  "  Are  cowslips  of  the  meadows 

Like  the  weeds  anear  the  mine  ? 


Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  our  coal-shadows 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine. 

"  For,  oh  I"  say  the  children,  <<  we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap  : 
If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping, 

We  fall  on  our  face  trying  to  go ; 
And  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  drooping, 

The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale  as  snow ; 
For  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring. 

Through  the  coal-dark  underground, 
Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 

In  the  factories  round  and  round. 

All  day  long  the  wheels  are  droning,  turning, 

Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces  ! 
Till   our    hearts    turn,  and  our  heads  with  pulses 
burning. 
And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places  ! 
Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank  and  reeling, 
Turns  the  long  light  that  droopeth  down  the  wall, 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the  ceiling, 
All  are  turning  all  the  day,  and  we  with  all  ! 
All  day  long,  the  iron  wheels  are  droning. 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
"  0,  ye  wheels,  (breaking  off"  in  a  mad  moaning,) 
Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  1" 

Ay,  be  silent !  let  them  hear  each  other  breathing, 

For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth ; 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a  fresh  wreath- 
ing, 
Of  their  tender  human  youth  ; 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion. 

Is  not  all  the  life  God  giveth  them  to  feel ; 
Let  them  prove  their  inward  souls  against  the  notion 

That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  O  wheel  ! 
Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward. 

As  if  fate  in  each  were  stark  ! 
And  the  children's    souls,    which    God   is    calling 
sunward, 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Now  tell  the  wenry  children,  O  my  brothers  ! 

That  they  look  to  Him  and  pray 
For  the  blessed  One  who  blesscth  all  the  others, 

To  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer — "  Who  is  God,  that  He  should  hear  us, 

While  this  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is  stirred  ? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures  near  us 
Pass  unhearing — at  least,  answer  not  a  word  ; 
And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their  resounding) 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door. 
Is  it  likely  God  with  angels  singing  round  Him, 
Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 

<'Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  remember; 
And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm. 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


37 


Our  Father  !  looking  upward  in  our  chamber, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm.* 
We  say  no  other  words  except  Our  Father  ! 

And  we  think  that,  in  some  pause  of  angel's  sonK, 
He  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence  sweet  to  gather. 
And  hold  both  in  his  right  hand,  which  is  strong. 
Our  Father  !  If  He  heard  us,  He  would  surely 

(For  they  call  him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,  (smiling  down  the  steep  world  very  purely,) 
<  Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child.'  " 

<<  But  no,"  say  the  children,  weeping  faster, 

"  He  is  silent  as  a  stone  ; 
And  they  tell  us  of  His  image  is  the  master 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
«'Go  to,"  say  the  children;  "  up  in  Heaven, 

Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all  we  find! 
Do  not  mock  us  !  we  are  atheists  in  our  grieving, 
We  look  up  to  Him,   but  tears  have  made  us 
blind  I" 
Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and  disproving, 

0  my  brothers,  what  ye  teach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  His  world's  loving. 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each  I 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  ye, 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run  ! 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the  glory 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun  ! 
They  know  the  grief  of  men,  but  not  the  wisdom. 

They  sink  in  their  despair,  with  hope  at  calm. 
Are  slaves  without  liberty  in  Christdom, 

Are  martyrs  by  the  pang,  without  the  palm  ! 
Are  worn  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 

No  joy  of  memory  keep. 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heavenly — 

Let  them  weep,  let  them  weep  I 

They  look  up,  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see  ; 
For  you  think  you  see  their  angels  in  their  places. 

With  eyes  meant  for  Deity. 
«'  How  long,"  they  say,  "  how  long,  O  cruel  nation  ! 
Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a  child's 
heart  ? — 
Trample  down  with  mailed  heel  its  palpitation. 

And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid  the  mart  ? 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  O  our  tyrants  ! 

And  your  purple  shows  your  path, 
But  the  child's  sob  curseth  deeper  in  the  silence, 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath !" 

*  The  report  of  the  commissioners  present  repeated  instfrnces 
of  children,  whose  religious  devotion  Is  confined  to  tlie  repeti- 
tion of  the  two  first  words  of  the  Lord's  Prayer. 


"  A  spirit  of  pure  and  intense  humanity,  a  spirit 
of  love  and  kindness,  to  which  nothing  is  too  large, 
for  which  nothing  is  too  small,  will  always  be  its 
own  '<  exceeding  great  reward." 


INSTINCT  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

BY  JOHN  NEAL. 

A  beautiful  child  stood  near  a  large  open  window. 
The  window  was  completely  overshadowed  by  wild 
grape  and  blossoming  honey-suckle,  and  the  droop- 
ing branches  of  a  prodigious  elm — the  largest  and 
handsomest  you  ever  saw.     The  child  was  loaning 
forward  with  half-open  mouth  and  thoughtful  eyes, 
looking  into  the  firmament  of  green  leaves  forever 
at  play,  that  appeared  to  overhang  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood ;  and   her    loose,  bright   hair,  as  it  broke 
away  in  the  cheerful   morning  wind,  glittered  like 
stray  sunshine  among  the  branches    and  blossoms. 
Just  underneath  her  feet,  and  almost  within  reach 
of  her  little  hand,  swung  a  large  and  prettily  cover- 
ed bird  cage,  all   open   to    the    sky  !      The   broad 
plentiful  grape  leaves  lay  upon  it  in  heaps — the  morn- 
ing wind  blew   pleasantly   through   it,  making  the 
very  music  that  birds  and  children  love  best — and 
the   delicate   branches  of  the  drooping  elm   swept 
over  it— and  the  glow  of  blossoming  herbage  rotuid 
about  fell  with   a  sort  of  shadowy  lustre   upon  the 
basin  of   bright   water,   and  the  floor  of  glittering 
sand  within  the  cage. 

"  Well, // ever!"  said  the  child;  and  then  she 
stooped  and  pulled  away  the  trailing  branches  and 
looked  into  the  cage ;  and  then  her  lips  began  to 
tremble,  and  her  soft  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Witbin  the  cage  was  the  mother  bird,  fluttering 
and  whistling— not  cheerfully,  but  mournfully— and 
beating  herself  to  death  against  the  delicate  wires  ; 
and  three  little  bits  of  birds  watching  her,  open- 
mouthed,  and  trying  to  follow  her  from  perch  to 
perch,  as  she  opened  and  shut  her  golden  wings,  like 
sudden  flashes  of  sunshine,  and  darted  hither  and 
thither,  as  if  hunted  by  some  invisible  thing — or  a 
a  cat  foraging  in  the  shrubbery. 

"There,  now!  there  you  go  again!  you  foolish 
thing,  you !  Why  what  is  the  matter  ?  I  should 
be  ashamed  of  myself !  I  should  so  !  Hav'nt  we 
bought  the  prettiest  cage  in  the  world  for  you? 
Hav'nt  you  had  enough  to  eat,  and  the  best  that 
could  be  had  for  love  or  money— sponge  cake— loaf 
sugar,  and  all  sorts  of  seeds  ?  Didn't  father  put  up 
a  nest  with  his  own  hands  ;  and  havn't  I  watched 
over  you?  you  ungrateful  little  thing!  till  the 
eggs  they  put  there  had  all  turned  to  birds,  no 
bigger  than  grasshoppers,  and  so  noisy — ah,  you 
can't  think !  Just  look  at  the  beautiful  clear  wa- 
ter  there — and  the  clean  white  sand — where  do  you 
think  you  could  find  such  water  as  that,  or  such  a 
pretty  glass  dish,  or  such  beautiful  bright  sand,  if 
we  were  to  take  you  at  your  word,  and  let  you  out, 
with  that  little  nest  full  of  young  ones,  to  shift  for 
yourselves,  hey  ?" 

The  door  opened,  and  a   tall   benevolent  looking 
man  stepped  up  to  her  side. 

"  Oh,  father,  I'm  so  glad  you're  come-     What  do 
you  think  is  the  matter  with  poor  little  birdy?" 


38 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


The  father  looked  down  among  the  grass  and 
shrubbery,  and  up  into  the  top  branches,  and  then 
into  the  cage — the  countenance  of  the  poor  little 
girl  growing  more  and  more  perplexed  and  more 
sorrowful  every  moment. 

"Well,  father — what  is  it?  does  it  see  any 
thing  ?" 

"  No  my  love,  nothing  to  frighten  her  ;  but  where 
is  the  father  bird  ?" 

"  He's  in  the  other  cage.  He  made  such  a  to-do 
when  the  birds  began  to  chipper  this  morning,  that 
I  was  obliged  to  let  him  out ;  and  brother  Bobby, 
he  frightened  him  into  the  cage  and  carried  him  off." 

"  Was  that  right,  my  love  ?" 

"Why  not,  father?  He  wonld'nt  be  quiet,  you 
know;  and  what  was  I  to  do  ?" 

"  But,  Moggy,  dear,  these  little  birds  may  want 
their  father  to  help  to  feed  them  ;  the  poor  mother 
bird  may  want  him  to  take  care  of  them,  or  sing 
to  her  ? 

«'  Or,  perhaps,  to  show  them  how  to  fly,  father  ?" 

"Yes,  dear.     And  to  separate  them  just  now — 

how  would  you  like  to  have  me  carried  off,  and  put 

•  into   another  house,  leaving   nothing   at  home   but 

your  mother  to   watch  over  you  and  the  rest  of  my 

little  birds  ?" 

The  child  grew  more  thoughtful.  She  looked  up 
into  her  father's  face,  and  appeared  as  if  more  than 
half  disposed  to  ask  a  question,  which  might  be  a 
little  out  of  place  ;  but  she  forbore,  and  after  mu- 
sing a  few  moments,  went  back  to  the  original 
subject : 

<<  But  father,  what  can  be  the  matter  with  the 
poor  thing  ?  you  see  how  she  keeps  flying  about,  and 
the  little  ones  trying  to  follow  her,  and  tumbling 
upon  their  noses,  and  toddling  about  as  if  they  were 
tipsy,  and  could'nt  see  straight." 

"  I  am  afraid  she  is  getting  discontented." 

"Discontented!  How  can  that  be,  father? 
Has'nt  she  her  little  ones  about  her,  and  every 
thing  on  earth  she  can  wish,  and  then,  you  know, 
she  never  used  to  be  so  before." 

"  When  her  mate  was  with  her,  perhaps." 

"  Yes,  father ;  and  yet  now  I  think  of  it,  the  mo- 
ment these  little  witches  began  to  peep.peep,  and 
tumble  about  so  funny,  the  father  and  mother  began 
to  fly  about  in  the  cage,  as  if  they  were  crazy. 
What  can  be  the  reason  ?  The  water,  you  see,  is 
cool  and  clear  ;  the  sand  bright ;  they  are  out  in  the 
open  air,  with  all  the  green  leaves  blowing  about 
them;  their  cage  has  been  scoured  with  soap  and 
sand  ;  the  fountain  filled  ;  and  the  seed  box — and — 
and— I  dec!ire  I  cannot  think  what  ails  them.'' 

"My  love,  may  it  not  be  the  very  things  you 
speak  of?  Things  which  you  think  ought  to  make 
them  happy,  are  the  very  cause  of  all  their  trouble, 
you  see.  The  father  and  mother  are  separated.  How 
can  they  teach  their  young  to  fly  in  that  cage  ! 
How  teach  them  to  provide  for  themselves?" 


"But  father — dear  father  !"  laying  her  little  hand 
on  the  spring  of  the  cage  door,  "dear  father  !  would 
you  ?" 

"And  why  not,  my  dear  child?"  and  the  father's 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he  stooped  down  and 
kissed  the  bright  face  upturned  to  his,  and  glowing 
as  if  illuminated  with  inward  sunshine.  "  lV//y 
not?'' 

"  I  was  only  thinking,  father,  if  I  should  let  them 
out,  who  will  feed  them?" 

"  Who  feeds  the  young  ravens,  dear  ?  Who  feeds 
the  ten  thousand  little  birds  that  are  flying  about  us 
now  ?" 

"  True,  father;  but  they  have  never  been  impri- 
soned, you  know,  and  have  already  learned  to  take 
care  of  themselves." 

The  father  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  Worthy  of  profound  consideration,  my  dear  ;  I 
admit  your  plea ;  but  have  a  care  lest  you  overrate 
the  danger  and  the  difficulty,  in  your  unwillingness 
to  part  with  your  beautiful  little  birds." 

"Father!"  and  the  little  hand  pressed  upon  the 
spring,  and  the  door  flew  open — wide  open  ! 

"Stay,  my  child  !  What  you  do  must  he  done 
thoughtfully,  conscientiously,  so  that  you  may  be 
satisfied  with  yourself,  hereafter,  and  allow  me  to 
hear  all  your  objections." 

"  I  was  thinking,  father,  about  the  cold  rains,  and 
the  long  winters,  and  how  the  poor  little  birds  that 
have  been  so  long  confined  would  never  be  able 
to  find  a  place  to  sleep  in,  or  water  to  wash  in,  or 
seeds  for  their  little  ones." 

"  In  our  climate,  my  love,  the  winters  are  very 
short ;  and  the  rainy  season  itself  does  not  drive  the 
birds  away;  and  then,  you  know,  birds  always  fol. 
low  the  sun;  if  our  climate  is  too  cold  for  them, 
they  have  only  to  go  farther  south.  But  in  a  word, 
my  love,  you  are  to  do  as  you  would  be  done  by. 
As  you  would  not  like  to  have  me  separated  from 
your  mother  and  you  ;  as  you  would  not  like  to  be 
imprisoned  for  life,  though  your  cage  were  crammed 
with  loaf  sugar  and  sponge  cake — as  )"ou — " 

"  That'll  do  father  !  that's  enough  !  Brother 
Bobby  :  hither  Bobby !  bring  the  little  cage  with 
you  ;  there's  a  dear  !" 

Brother  Bobby  sang  out  in  reply ;  and  after  a 
moment  or  two  of  anxious  inquiry,  appeared  at  the 
window  with  a  little  cage.  The  prison  doors  were 
opened  :  the  father  bird  escaped  ;  the  mother  bird 
immediately  followed,  with  a  cry  of  joy  ;  and 
then  came  back  and  tolled  her  little  ones  forth 
among  the  bright  green  leaves.  The  children  clap- 
ped their  hands  in  an  ecstacy,  and  the  father  fell 
upon  their  necks  and  kissed  them;  and  the  mother, 
who  sat  by,  sobbed  over  them  both  for  a  a  whole 
hour,  as  if  her   heart  would   break;  and    told   her 

neighbors  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

•  ••••• 

"  The  ungrateful  hussy  !     What  !  after  all  that  we 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED 


39 


have  done  for  her;  giving  her  the  best  room  that  we 
could  spare  ;  feeding  her  from  our  own  t;ible  ;  cloth- 
ing her  from  onr  own  wardrobe ;  giving  her  the 
handsomest  and  shrewdest  fellow  for  a  husband  within 
twenty  miles  of  us;  allowing  them  to  live  together 
till  a  child  is  born ;  and  now,  because  we  have  thought 
proper  to  send  him  away  for  a  while,  where  he  may 
earn  his  keep — now,  forsooth !  we  are  to  find  my 
lady  discontent  with  her  situation  !" 

"  Dear  father !" 

<<  Hush,  child  !" 

«'  Ay,  discontented — that's  the  word — actually  dis- 
satisfied with  her  condition  !  the  jade  !  with  the  best 
of  every  thing  to  make  her  happy — comforts  and 
luxuries  she  could  never  dream  of  obtaining  if  she 
were  free  to-morrow — and  always  contented;  never 
presuming  to  be  discontented  till  now-" 

"And  what  does  she  complain  of  father?" 

"  Why,  my  dear  child,  the  unreasonable  thing 
complains  just  because  we  have  sent  her  husband 
away  to  the  other  plantation  for  a  few  months ;  he 
was  idle  here,  and  might  have  grown  discontented, 
too,  if  we  had  not  picked  him  off.  And  then,  instead 
of  being  happier,  and  more  thankful — more  thankful 
to  her  heavenly  Father,  for  the  gift  of  a  man  child, 
Martha  tells  me  that  she  found  her  crying  over  it, 
calling  it  a  little  slave,  and  wished  the  Lord  would 
take  it  away  from  her — the  ungrateful  wench  !  when 
the  death  of  that  child  would  be  two  hundred  dollars 
out  of  my  pocket — every  cent  of  it !" 

"  After  all  we  have  done  for  her  too  I"  sighed  the 
mother. 

"I  declare  I  have  no  patience  with  the  jade  !"  con- 
tinued the  father, 

"  Father — dear  father !" 

"  Be  quiet.  Moggy  1  don't  teaze  me  now." 

"But,  father  !"  and,  as  she  spoke,  the  child  ran  up 
to  her  father  and  drew  him  to  the  window,  and  threw 
back  her  sun-shiny  tresses,  and  looked  up  into  his 
eyes  with  the  face  of  an  angel,  and  pointed  to  the  cage 
as  it  still  hung  at  the  window,  with  the  door  wide 
open  ! 

The  father  understood  her,  and  colored  to  the  eyes  ; 
and  then,  as  if  half  ashamed  of  the  weakness,  bent 
over  and  kissed  her  forehead — smoothed  down  her 
silky  hair — and  told  her  she  was  a  child  now,  and 
must  not  talk  about  such  matters  till  she  had  grown 
older. 

"  Why  not,  father  1" 

"  Why  not  1  Why  bless  your  little  heart !  Sup- 
pose I  were  silly  enough  to  open  my  doors  and  turn 
her  adrift,  with  her  child  at  her  breast,  what  would 
become  of  her  1  Who  would  take  care  of  her  1  who 
feed  her  1" 

«  Who  feeds  the  ravens,  father  1  Who  takes  care  of 
all  the  white  mothers,  and  all  the  white  babes  we  see  1" 

"  Yes,  child — but  then — I  know  what  you  are  think- 
ing of;  but  then — there's  a  mighty  difference,  let  me 
tell  you,  between  a  slave  mother  and  a  white  mother 
— between  a  slave  child  and  a  white  child." 


"  Yes,  father."' 

"Don't  interrupt  me.  You  drive  everything  out 
of  my  head.  What  was  I  going  to  say  1  Oh  !  ah  ! 
that  in  our  long  winters  and  cold  rains,  these  poor 
things  who  have  been  brought  up  in  our  houses,  and 
who  know  nothing  about  the  anxieties  of  life,  and 
have  never  learned  to  take  care  of  themselvs — and — 
a—" 

"  Yes,  falher  ;  but  could'i  they  follow  the  sun,  too  ? 
or  go  further  south  .?" 

"  And  why  not  be  happy  herel" 

"But,  father — dear  father!  How  can  they  teach 
their  Hi  lie  ones  to  fly  in  a  cage  .?'' 

"  Child,  you  are  getting  troublesome  !" 

"And  bow  teach  their  young  to  provide  for  them- 
selves, father  1" 

"  Put  the  little  imp  to  bed,  directly  :  do  you  hear  1" 

"Goodnight,  father!     Good    night,  mother !     Do 

AS  TOO  WOULD   BE  DONE  BY." 


MY    FRIEND . 

Wouldst  thou  be  friend  of  mine  ? — 
Thou  must  be  quick  and  bold 

When  the  right  is  to  be  done, 
And  the  truth  is  to  be  told  ; 

Wearing  no  friend-like  smile 
When  thine  heart  is  not  within, 

Making  no  truce  with  fraud  or  guile, 
No  compromise  with  sin. 

Open  of  eye  and  speech. 

Open  of  heart  and  hand, 
Holding  thine  own  but  as  in  trust 

For  thy  great  brother-band. 

Patient  and  stout  to  bear, 

Yet  bearing  not  for  ever  ;• 
Gentle  to  rule,  and  slow  to  bind. 

Like   lightning  to  deliver  ! 

True  to  thy  fatherland. 

True  to  thine  own  true  love  ; 

True  to  thine  altar  and  thy  creed, 
And  thy  good  God  above. 

But  with  no  bigot  scorn 

For  faith  sincere  as  thine. 
Though  less  of  form  attend  the  prayer, 

Or  more  of  pomp  the  shrine  ; 

Remembering  Him  who  spake 

The  word  that  cannot  lie, 
"  Where  two  or  three  in  my  name  meet 

There  in  the  midst  am  I !" 

I  bar  thee  not  from  faults — 

God  wot  it  were  in  vain ! 
Inalienable  heritage 

Since  that  primeval  stain ! 


40 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


The  wisest  have  been  fools — 
The  surest  stumbled  sore  : 

Strive  thou  to  stand — or  fall'n  arise, 
1  ask  the  enot  for  more  ! 

This  do,  and  thou  shalt  knit 
Closely  my  heart  to  thine ; 

Next  the  dear  love  of  God  above. 
Such  friend  on  earth,  be  mine  ! 


THE  FACTORY  GIRLS  OF  LOWELL. 

BY    JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 

Acres  of  girlhood — beauty  reckoned  by  the 
square  rod,  or  miles  by  long  measure  I — The  young, 
the  graceful,  the  gay — flowers  gathered  from  a  thou- 
sand hill-sides  and  green  vallies  of  New  England — 
fair,  unveiled  Nuns  of  Industry — Sisters  of  Thrift, — 
and  are  ye  not  also  Sisters  of  Charity,  dispensing 
comfort  and  hope  and  happiness  around  many  a  hearth- 
stone of  your  native  hills,  making  sad  faces  cheerful 
and  hallowing  age  and  poverty  with  the  sunshine  of 
your  youth  and  love  I — Who  shall  sneer  at  your  call- 
ing ?  Who  shall  count  your  vocation  otherwise  than 
noble  and  ennobling? 

Four  years  ago,  in  a  hasty  visit  to  Lowell  I  was, 
at  the  Boott  Corporation  in  company  with  Joseph 
Sturge,  of  Birmingham,  the  calm,  devoted  leader  of 
the  Democracy  of  England,  and  my  friend  Lt.  Ren- 
shaw,  of  South  Carolina,  and  more  recently  a  mis- 
sionary in  Jamaica,  among  the  newly  emancipated 
blacks  of  that  Island.  As  the  bell  was  ringing,  and 
the  crowd  of  well-dressed,  animated  and  intelligent- 
looking  young  women  passed  by  us  on  their  way  to 
their  lodgings,  the  philanthropic  Englishman  could 
not  repress  his  emotions  at  the  strong  contrast  they 
presented  to  the  degraded  and  oppressed  working- 
women  of  his  own  country  ;  and  the  spectacle,  I 
doubt  not,  confirmed  and  strengtheend  his  determi- 
nation to  consecrate  his  time,  wealth,  and  honorable 
reputation,  to  the  cause  of  the  laborer,  at  home. — 
My  friend  Renshaw,  who  was  banished  from  his 
mother's  fireside,  and  his  father's  grave,  for  the  cause 
of  abolitionism,  deeply  impressed  with  the  beauty 
of  Freedom,  and  hope-stimulated  industry,  exclaim- 
ed— "  Would  to  God  my  mother  could  see  this  !" 
At  home,  he  had  seen  the  poor  working-women  of 
the  South  driven  by  the  whip  to  their  daily  tasks  ; 
here  with  gaiety  and  hope,  and  buoyant  gracefulness, 
he  saw  the  women  of  New  England  pass  from  their 
labors,  making  industry  beautiful,  and  throwing  the 
charm  of  romance  and  refinement  over  the  dull  mo- 
notony of  their  self-alloted  tasks.  Not  in  vain  then, 
are  the  lessons  of  Free  Labor  taught  by  the  "  Facto- 
ry Girls."  The  forsign  traveller  has  repeated  them 
in  aristocratic  England,  in  Germany,  in  France,  and 
Prussia — and  thus  have  the  seeds  of  democratic 
truth   been   sown  in  the  waste  places   of  the   Old 


World.  The  slaveholder  dragging  his  languid  frame 
from  the  rice-region  and  the  sugar-plantation,  full  of 
contempt  for  the  laborer,  and  bitter  in  his  scorn  of 
Yankee  meanness,  has  been  awed  into  reverence  for 
Industry  in  the  presence  of  the  working-women  of 
Lowell ;  and,  painfully  contrasting  the  unpaid  and 
whip-driven  labor  of  his  plantation,  with  the  free 
and  happy  thrift  of  the  North,  he  has  returned  home, 

"  A  sadder  but  a  wiser  man," 
feeling  from  henceforth  that  woman  may  "  labor  with 
her  hands,"  and  lose  nothing  of  the  charm  and  glory 
of  womanhood  by  so  doing — that  it  is  only  his  own 
dreadful  abuse  of  labor,  attempting  to  reverse  its  just 
and  holy  laws,  and  substitute  brutal  compulsion  for 
generous  and  undegrading  motives,  that  has  made 
the  women  of  his  plantation  mere  beasts  of  burden, 
or  objects  of  unholy  lust,  cursing  alike  themselves 
and  their  oppressors. 

Thus  is  it,  that  our  thousands  of  "  Factory  Girls," 
become  apostles  of  Democracy,  and  teachers  of  the 
great  truth,  which  even  John  C.  Calhoun,  slaveholder 
as  he  is,  felt  constrained  to  recognize  in  his  contro- 
versy with  Webster  :  "  The  laborer  has  a  title  to  the 
fruits  of  his  industry  against  the  universe."  They 
demonstrate  the  economy  of  free  and  paid  labor. — 
They  dignify  woman,  by  proving  that  she  can  place 
herself  in  independent  circumstances,  without  dero- 
gating from  the  modesty  and  decorum  of  her  charac- 
ter : — that  she  can  blend  the  useful  with  the  beauti- 
ful, and  that,  instead  of  casting  herself,  as  a  fair  but 
expensive  burthen  upon  the  other  sex — its  plaything 
and  its  encumbrance — she  is  capable  of  becoming  a 
help-mete  and  a  blesssing. 

Yet,  I  do  not  overlook  the  trials  and  disadvantages 
of  their  position.  Not  without  a  struggle  have  many 
of  these  females  left  the  old  paternal  home-stead, 
and  the  companions  of  their  childhood.  Not  as  a 
matter  of  taste  and  self-gratification  have  many  of 
them  exchanged  the  free  breezes,  and  green  mead, 
ows,  and  household  duties,  of  the  country,  for  the 
close,  hot  city,  and  the  jar  and  whirl  of  these  crowd- 
ed and  noisy  mills.  In  the  midst  of  the  dizzy  rush 
of  machinery,  they  can  hear  in  fancy  the  ripple  of 
brooks,  the  low  of  cattle,  the  familiar  sound  of  the 
voices  of  home.  Nor  am  I  one  of  those  who  count 
steady,  daily  toil,  consuming  the  golden  hours  of  the 
day,  and  leaving  only  the  night  for  recreation,  study 
and  rest,  as  in  itself  a  pleasurable  matter.  There 
have  been  a  good  many  foolish  essays  written  upon 
the  beauty  and  divinity  of  labor  by  those  who  have 
never  known  what  it  really  is  to  earn  one's  liveli- 
hood by  the  sweat  of  the  brow — who  have  never, 
from  year  to  year,  bent  over  the  bench  or  loom,  shut 
out  from  the  blue  skies,  the  green  grass,  and  sweet 
waters,  and  felt  the  head  reel,  and  the  heart  faint, 
and  the  limbs  tremble  with  the  exhaustion  of  unre- 
mitted toil.  Let  such  be  silent.  Their  sentimenta'- 
ism  is  a  weariness  to  the  worker-  Let  not  her  who 
sits  daintily  with  her  flowers,  "herself  the  fairest," 


VOICES    OF     THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


41 


looking  out  from  cool  verandahs  on  still,  green 
woods  and  soft  flowing  waters,  to  whom  Music  and 
Poetry  and  Romance  minister,  whose  slightest  wish 
is  as  law  to  her  dependents, — undertake  to  senti- 
mentalize over  the  "working  classes,"  and  quote 
Carlyle  and  Goethe,  concerning  the  romance  and 
beauty,  and  miraculous  powers  of  Work — in  the  ab- 
stract. How  is  it  that  with  such  admirers  of  Labor, 
the  laborer  is  so  little  considered  ?  How  is  it  that 
they  put  forth  no  hand  to  pull  down  that  hateful  wall 
of  distinction  which  pride  has  built  up  between  the 
labourer  and  the  labored  for  ?  Excellent  was  the 
advice  of  Dr.  Johnson  to  Boswell :  "My  dear  sir, 
clear  your  mind  of  cant." 

My  attention  has  been  called  to  a  neat  volume  just 
published  in  London,  consisting  of  extracts  from  the 
Lowell  Offering,  written  by  females  employed  in  the 
mills,  to  which  the  English  editor  has  given  the  title 
of  "  Mind  amongst  the  Spindles.''  Thousands  will 
read  it,  and  admire  it,  who  will  not  reflect  upon  the 
fact  that  these  writings  are  only  an  exception  to  the 
general  rule,  that  after  twelve  or  more  hours  of 
steady  toil,  mind  and  body  are  both  too  weary  for 
intellectual  effort.  "  Mind  among  the  spindles!'' 
Let  all  manner  of  Factory  Agents,  and  "Corpora- 
tions without  souls,"  consider  it.  The  mind  of  the 
humblest  worker  in  these  mills  is  of  infinitely  more 
consequence  in  the  sight  of  Him  who  looks  on  the 
realities  of  His  universe,  than  all  the  iron-armed 
and  steam-breathed  engines  of  mechanism.  It  is  a 
serious  fact,  gentlemen,  that  among  your  spindles, 
and  looms,  and  cottons,  and  woolens,  are  thousands 
of  immortal  souls — children  of  our  Great  Father- 
fearfully  dependent  for  their  bias  towards  good  or 
evil,  for  their  tendency  upward  or  downward,  upon 
the  circumstances  with  which  they  are  environed. — 
Think  less  of  your  monster-mechanisms,  and  more 
of  the  "srmiT  within  the  wheels."  The  one 
may  wear  out  with  constant  friction,  but  it  is  only 
dead  matter.  It  may  be  restored.  But,  who  shall 
repair  the  worn  out  body,  and  renovate  that  spirit, 
the  life  of  which  has  been  exhausted  by  toil  too 
protracted  ? 

Yes — let  the  unpractical  say  what  they  will,  there 
is  much  that  is  wearisome  and  irksome  in  the  life 
of  the  factory  operative.  All  praise  then  to  those, 
who,  by  the  cultivation  of  their  minds,  and  the 
sweet  influences  of  a  healthful  literature,  have  re- 
lieved this  weariness,  and  planted  with  flowers  the 
dusty  path-way  of  Toil.  Honor  to  those  who 
have  demonstrated  to  the  blind  aristocrats  of  Eu- 
rope and  America,  that  the  rich  and  the  idle  can- 
not become  the  entire  monopolists  of  refined  taste — 
that  in  the  temple  of  Nature,  which  is  open  to  all, 
the  Beautiful  stands  side  by  side  with  the  Useful 
— Grace  throwing  her  oaken  garland  over  the 
sun-brown  brow  of  Labor — with  the  same  soft 
skylight  of  Our  Father's  blessing  resting  upon 
all. 


THE  LABOURER. 

BY    WILLIA.M    D.    GALLAGHER. 

Stand  up — erect !     Thou  hast  the  form 

And  likeness  of  thy  God  I — who  more  ! 

A  soul  as  dauntless  'mid  the  storm 

Of  daily  life,  a  heart  as  warm 

And  pure,  as  breast  e'er  wore. 

What  then  ? — Thou  art  as  true  a  man 
As  moves  the  human  mass  along, 

As  much  a  part  of  the  great  plan 

That  with  Creation's  dawn  began, 
As  any  of  the  throng. 

Who  is  thine  enemy  ? — the  high 

In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief? 

The  great,  who  coldly  pass  thee  by, 

With  proud  step  and  averted  eye? 
Nay  !  nurse  not  such  belief. 

If  true  unto  thyself  thou  wast. 

What  were  the  proud  one's  scorn  to  thee  ? 
A  feather,  which  thou  mightest  cast 
Aside,  as  idly  as  the  blast 

The  light  leaf  from  the  tree. 

No  : — uncurb'd  passions — low  desires — 
Absence  of  noble  self  respect — 

Death,  in  the  breast's  consuming  fires. 

To  that  high  nature  which  aspires 
Forever,  till  thus  checked — 

These  are  thine  enemies — thy  worst ; 

They  chain  thee  to  thy  lowly  lot — 
Thy  labour  and  thy  life  accurst. 
Oh,  stand  erect  I  and  from  them  burst ! 

And  longer  suffer  not ! 

Thou  art  thyself  thine  enemy ! 

The  great !— what  better  they  than  thou  ? 
As  theirs,  is  not  thy  will  as  free? 
Has  God  with  equal  favours  thee 

Neglected  to  endow  ? 

True,  wealth  thou  hast  not :  'tis  but  dust ! 

Nor  place  :  uncertain  as  the  wind  ! 
But  that  thou  hast,  which,  with  thy  crust 
And  water,  may  despise  the  lust 

Of  both — a  noble  mind. 

With  this,  and  passions  under  ban. 
True  faith,  and  holy  trust  in  God, 

Thou  art  the  peer  of  any  man. 

Look  up,  then— that  thy  little  span 
Of  life  may  be  well  trod! 


42 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


REFORM. 


BY    THOMAS    L.    HARRIS. 


A  voice  peals  o'er  life's  wildly  heaving  waters, 

More  startling  than  the  anthem  of  the  storm  ; 
Sweet  as  the  hymn  wherewith  Etruria's  daughters 

Went  forth  of  old  to  welcome  in  the  morn  : 
It  shakes  with  fear  the  despot  stern  and  hoary ; 

He  totters  on  his  blood-cemented  throne — 
It  breathes  into  the  warrior's  car  the  story 

Of  days  when  fields  of  blood  will  be  unknown — 
It  fills  the  gray  old  idol-fanes,  whose  altars 

Are  fitly  builded  o'er  the  hollow  tomb  ; 
The  Priest  amid  his  incantation  falters, 

And  trembles  with  the  presence  of  their  doom  ; 
Falsehood,  with  fearful  agony  dissembles, 

And  vice,  within  her  gilded  chamber  trembles 

And  hate  grows  darker  still  with  idle  rage. 

But  the  crushed  bondsman  hears  it,  and  upspringeth 

To  burst  his  shackles  and  once  more  be  free, 
And  shouts  aloud  until  the  echo  ringeth 

O'er  the  far  islands  of  the  Eastern  sea. 
The  faithful  lover  of  his  race  rejoices — 

The  champion  girds  his  gleaming  armor  on — 
The  seer  saith  "  God  speaks  in  those  earnest  voices  : 

Earth's  fearful  battle-field  shall  yet  be  won." 
Each  hallowed  martyr  of  the  ages  olden 

Leapeth  for  joy  within  hi?  darkened  grave. 
And  new-born  poets  wake  with  voices  golden 

To  chant  the  glorious  actions  of  the  brave  ; 
O'er  earth  it  rolls  like  peals  of  gathering  thunder, 

And  nations  rise  from  slumber  on  the  sod. 
And  angels  list,  all  mute  with  breathless  wonder, 

Its  echo  in  the  living  soul  of  God ! 
O'er  every  radiant  island  of  creation 

The  music  of  that  swelling  peal  is  borne, 
Land  bears  to  land,  and  nation  shouts  to  nation 

The  war-cry  of  the  age — reform  ! — Refoiim  ! 

List  to  that  mighty  music — 0,  my  brother ! 

Heed  thou  those  anthem-voices,  as  they  roll, 
Like  bursting  flames  that  darkness  fain  would  smother 

Through  the  deep  chambers  of  the  inner  soul. 
Waking  the  spirit,  in  its  deathless  power, 

To  gird  its  armor  for  the  daily  fight ; 
And  in  the  Present's  dark  and  fearful  hour 

Go  forth  to  battle  for  the  true  and  right. 
Hearken,  and  burst  the  slimy  chains  of  fashion, 

Let  the  false  worlding  scorn  thee  if  he  will ; 
Rise,  sun-like,  o'er  the  storms  of  earthly  passion. 

And  stem  with  fearless  breast  the  tide  of  ill. 

Success  will  crown  each  arduous  endeavor, 

And  from  the  strife  thy  soul  rise  great  and  free, 

And  deed  give  birth  to  deeds  that  roll  forever. 
Wave  after  wave,  o'er  time's  grand,  azure  sea. 

A  crown  of  thorns  the  foe  may  twine  around  thee  : 
Press  on,  the  way  is  open,  heed  not  them — 


The  mournful  wreath.wherewith  their  hate  hath  bound 

Shall  change  unto  a  starry  diadem.  [thee, 

The  grand  of  soul,  the  true,  the  noble-hearted. 

Will  hear  thy  strokes  and  rally  at  thy  side, 
And  round  thy  brow,  through  rifted  clouds  and  parted, 

Stream  down  the  smile  of  God.     O,  glorified  ! 
From  life  and  voice  the  wakened  world  inherit 

A  legacy  of  truth  and  love  sublime, 
"Whose  charm  shall  echo  when  thy  earnest  spirit 

Rests  with  the  mighty  of  the  olden  time ; 
Rests,  filled  with  joy  beyond  all  human  story, 

As  looking  down,  with  calm  and  god-like  eyes, 
It  views  the  race,  in  mind's  transcendant  glory, 

Scaling  the  star-crowned  mountains  of  the  skies  ! 

TRUTH  AND  FREEDOM. 

BY      WILLIAM     D.     GALLAGHER. 

"  He  is  the  Freem.\x  whom  the  Truth  niakeB  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  beside." — Cowper. 

For  the  Truth,  then,  let  us  battle. 

Whatsoever  fate  betide  ! 
Long  the  boast  that  we  are  Freemen, 

We  have  made  and  publishefl  wide. 

He  who  hath  the  Truth,  and  keeps  it, 
Keeps  what  to  himself  belongs, 

But  performs  a  selfish  action, 
That  his  fellow  mortal  wrongs. 

He  who  seeks  the  Truth,  and  trembles 
At  the  dangers  he  must  brave. 

Is  not  fit  to  be  a  Freeman  : — 
He,  at  least,  is  but  a  slave. 

He  who  hears  the  Truth  and  places 
Its  high  promptings  under  ban, 

Loud  may  boast  of  all  that's  manly, 
But  can  never  be  a  man. 

Friend,  this  simple  lay  who  readest, 
Be  not  thou  like  either  them, — 

But  to  Truth  give  utmost  freedom, 
And  the  tide  it  raises,  stem. 

Bold  in  speech  and  bold  in  action, 
Be  forever  I — Time  will  tost. 

Of  the  free  soul'd  and  the  slavish. 
Which  fulfils  life's  mission  best. 

Be  thou  like  the  noble  Roman — 
Scorn  the  threat  that  bids  thee  fear. 

Speak  I — no  matter  what  betide  thee  ; 
Let  them  strike,  but  make  them  hear. 

Be  thou  like  the  first  Apostles — 

Be  thou  like  heroic  Paul  ; 
If  a  free  thought  seek  expression. 

Speak  it  boldly  ! — speak  it  all ! 

Face  thine  enemies  ! — accusers  1 
Scorn  the  prison,  rack,  or  rod  ! 

And,  if  thou  hath  Truth  to  utter, 
Sjieak  !  and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HE  ARTEP. 


43 


A  GLIMPSE  AT  <  MERRIE  ENGLAND.' 


BY    ELIZUR    WRIGHT. 


Time,  which  tarries  not  for  mortals,  has  brought 
me  to  the  close  of  my  look  at  England.  It  is  very 
awkward  to  sum  up  and  generalize  when  one  has 
only  begun  to  observe  ;  therefore  understand  me  as 
giving  generalizations  of  things  as  they  seem  to  me — 
what  a  fly  that  lights  upon  England  for  a  twinkling 
and  is  off,  thinks  of  it. 

As  to  the  bounties  of  Providence,  substantial 
blessings  and  beauties,  I  cannot  conceive  how  more 
could  have  been  granted  in  the  same  space,  than  is 
the  lot  of  this,  so  far  as  nature  has  made  it,  "  merrie 
England."  After  seeing  the  golden  harvests  of  the 
rich  eastern  counties  and  Yorkshire,  the  meadows  of 
the  Thames,  above  all,  the  garden  valley  of  the 
Tweed ;  the  mines  of  Derbyshire,  and  another  re- 
gion to  which  the  wise  do  not  carry  coals  ;  the  bens 
and  lochs  of  Scotland  ;  the  pikes  and  fells,  and  dales 
and  meres  of  Westmoreland  ;  the  springs  of  Mal- 
vern ;  the  valleys  of  the  Severn  and  the  Wye — even 
taking  a  nap  on  the  brow  of  the  Wyndecliffe — surely 
I  have  a  right  to  say,  "  Avaunt,  all  geography;  this 
island  is  the  very  spot  where  the  human  race  ought 
to  develop  itself  in  all  its  power  and  glory."  But 
truly,  the  race,  as  a  man,  is  far  and  painfully  below 
what  a  nurseling  of  republicanism,  alighting  on  the 
^^  yndecliffe,  and  drinking  in  the  beauties  of  the 
wide  landscape,  and  knowing  nothing  more  of  Eng- 
land, would  expect  to  find  it.  There  is  ignorance 
and  coarse  brutality,  and  sullen  hopelessness,  and 
haggared  wretchedness,  far  beyond  what  there  ought 
to  be  in  the  midst  of  such  beauties  and  blessings. 
Yet  there  is  not  a  little,  but  a  great  deal  among  the 
human  inhabitants,  that  is,  like  the  land-scape,  noble 
and  lovely  and  glorious,  and  that,  not  in  no  one  class, 
but  in  all  classes,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest. 
And  a  peep  at  history  will  convince  one,  too,  that 
the  race  is  here  making  a  progress  that  is  truly  en- 
couraging and  sublime.  Indeed,  history  writes  this 
upon  the  landscape.  The  old  feudal  castles,  now 
possessed  by  ivy  and  owls  ;  the  ruinous  abbeys,  the 
dimly-remembered  battle  fields  and  '■'  Smithfields," 
are  way-marks  that  show  how  the  race  has  gone 
forward.  The  Alfreds,  the  Shakspeares,  theHamp- 
dens,  the  Newtons,  the  Miltons,  the  Howards,  the 
W^sleys,  the  Hogarths,  have  not  lived  in  vain. 
Their  mantles  are  worn  worthily  by  _men  whom  it 
might  be  invidious  to  mention  now,  but  who  will 
shine  as  the  staTs  by  and  by ;  men  who  are  doing 
what  Cromwell  did,  in  a  wiser  way.  They  have 
approached  in  fact,  nearer  than  in  form,  to  the  de- 
sired goal.  In  enumerating  the  governing  powers 
of  England,  you  have  not  done  when  you  have  men- 
tioned king,  lords  and  commons.  The  press  is  to 
be  named,  and  that  not  at  the  tail  of  the  list.  The 
press  has  outgrown  the  power  of  what  is  called  the 
government,    to  control   either   by  fear   or    favor. 


Look  at  the  Times  newspaper  with  a  net  revenue 
equal  to  that  of  a  third  rate  European  potentate. 
Ministers  have  bribed  it  till  it  is  beyond  the  reach 
of  their  bribery.  They  look  up  to  it  with  fear  and 
trembling,  and  a  degree  of  humble  obedience.  It  is 
the  voice  of  the  most  vigorous  intellect  of  England, 
saying  what  will  be  most  likely  to  find  an  echo  in 
the  breasts  of  one  hundred  thousand  independent 
Englishmen  as  they  swallow  their  buttered  toast 
and  boiled  egg.  Look  at  Punch,  too,  with  wit  and 
wisdom  enough  to  insure  him  a  hundred  patents  of 
immortality.  He  governs  a  great  part  of  England, 
very  much  for  its  gO'od.  The  Pecksniffs  of  the  land 
take  hints  from  him,  much  to  the  benefit  of  their 
dupes.  Hence  one  may  conclude  that  England  is 
growing,  and  has  grown  wiser,  and,  of  course  hap- 
pier. Yet  if  one  were  to  ask  himself  to  write  down 
the  folly  and  humbug  and  uuhappiness  of  England, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  decide  where  to  begin,  and 
quite  impossible  to  end. 

England  may  be  said  to  live  under  a  trinity 
of  evil,  kingcraft,  priestcraft,  and  beercraft.  In 
this  let  me  not  be  understood  to  speak  disrespect, 
fully  of  this  interesting  daughter  of  Eve,  the  Queen, 
who  with  such  exemplary  patience  obeys  the  com- 
mand imposed  upon  her  aforesaid  mother,  nor  of  the 
reverend  clergy,  nor  yet  of  the  noble  brewers, 
many  of  whom  write  sir  before  and  barf,  after  their 
names.  They  are  all  honorable  persons,  I  hope  and 
trust;  but  the  craft  to  which  they  were  born  or 
bred,  does,  I  am  sure,  cost  England  immeasurable 
woes.  O  that  I  had  the  eye  of  a  prophet  and  could 
say  that  there  was  in  the  visible  dimmest  distance 
of  the  future,  any  thorough  relief.  As  it  is,  san- 
guine hope,  without  seeing  any  thing,  guesses  that 
deliverance  must  come,  somehow  and  at  sometime 
or  other.  The  order-  in  which  the  evils  press  upon 
the  country  seem  to  me  to  be  first,  beercraft,  second 
priestcraft,  third  kingcraft.  Till  the  beercraft  is 
removed— till  the  people  get  the  clear  heads  and 
strong  hearts  which  pure  water  gives — in  vain  you 
lift  at  the  others.  Suppose  you  abolish  the  taxes 
and  tithes  and  give  England  a  cheap  government, 
and  free  church  and  full  suffrage,  to  what  will  it 
amount,  so  far  as  the  masses  aife  concerned  ?  Pre- 
cisely to  more  beer  and  consequences  of  beer!  I 
may  be  mistaken ;  truly  I  have  found  warm  and 
zealous  promoters  of  thorough  temperance,  but  they 
seem  to  be  regarded  as  the  maddest  of  fanatics. 
Nine  men  out  of  ten  of  the  laboring  classes,  so  far  as 
I  have  been  able  to  observe,  and  I  have  been  quite 
inquisitive,  have  not  the  slightest  barrier  between 
themsehves  and  stupidity  and  drunkenness  but  their 
inability  to  get  enough  beer.  It  is  their  undoubted 
creed  that  beer  is  a  blessing,  and  one  of  their  deep- 
est sorrows  is  that  their  wages  will  not  allow  them 
to  get  plenty  of  it,  with  a  drop  or  two  of  gin  by  way 
of  luxury.  Look  at  poor  Chartism,  befogged  in 
beer  1  fighting  as  often  as  any  way  against  itself,  and 


44 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE- II  EAR  TED. 


selling  to  its  worst  enemies  even  the  little  suffrage 
it  comnianils !  If  the  masses  of  England  could  be 
roused  to  enter  upon  the  career  so  gloriously  begun 
by  those  of  Ireland,  they  would  soon  take  a  position 
which  would  settle  many  of  the  knottiest  questions 
of  politics,  and  the  crafts  of  the  priest  and  the  king 
would  be  swept  away  like  the  meshes  of  the  spider. 
The  state  and  the  church  would  then  take  their 
places  as  servants  of  the  people — not  masters.  Yet 
with  all  this,  which  to  an  American  mind  is  so  evi- 
dent, staring  them  in  the  face,  there  are  plenty  of 
sincere  philanthropists  here,  enemies  of  slavery,  of 
corn  laws,  of  church  tyranny,  of  a  vampyre  aris- 
tocracy, who  will  pity  you  for  not  drinking  wine 
with  them !  who  will  raise  the  cup  of  Circe  to  their 
own  lips,  and  then  lament  the  oppression  and  dagra- 
dation  of  England's  poor  !  Put  the  brewers  of  Eng- 
land in  the  same  condition  with  her  feudal  castles 
and  monasteries,  and  her  poor  will  soon  take  care  of 
other  vampyres. 

There  is  one  sign  of  the  times,  however,  which 
is  hopeful.  The  discovery  in  Germany  of  the  won- 
derful sanatory  principles  of  cold  ivutcr,  is  making  a 
deep  impression  upon  the  higher  and  middle  classes 
here.  The  doctors  are  not  able  to  laugh  it  down.  After 
spending  fortunes  on  physicians  in  vain,  invalids  go 
to  Grafenburg  and  are  healed.  A  child  with  the 
scarlet  fever  is  wrapped  in  a  wet  sheet  and  gets 
well.  Men  rummage  their  libraries  and  find  that 
just  such  cures  have  been  performed  at  Malvern  a 
hundred  years  ago,  and  the  water  when  analysed  is 
the  purest  possible.  And  they  find  cases  in  which 
patients  with  raging  fever  and  delirium  have  broken 
loose  from  their  nurses  and  jumped  into  the  Thames 
or  some  horsepond,  and  their  madness  has  proved 
better  than  the  wisdom  of  the  doctors. 

Many  are  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  disease  is 
chiefly  some  mysterious  modification  of  that  great 
poison,  diet,  with  which  we  are  sent  into  the  world 
to  battle,  and  this  redounds  greatly  to  the  advantage 
oi  pure  water.  Setting  poisons  to  catch  poisons  is 
growing  into  disrepute  with  these  people,  and  con- 
sequently they  may  by  and  by  be  expected  to  see 
the  absurdity  of  sending  one  dram  of  alcohol  into 
the  stomach  to  cure  the  disease  made  by  its  prede- 
cessor. The  multitude  of  experiments  which  have 
now  put  the  matter  fairly  to  the  test,  seem  to  de- 
monstrate that  coldness  combined  with  pure  water, 
is  the  best  means  that  has  ever  been  tried  to  quench 
human  inflammations,  and  when  properly  applied 
will  cure  any  patient  who  has  streiigfh  to  be  cured 
in  any  way.  This  being  true,  the  occupation — I  do 
not  say  of  the  doctors,  for  it  will  require  science 
and  wisdom  to  apply  cold  water — but  of  the  drug- 
gists— of  all  medical  poison  manufacturers,  is  gone. 
And  shall  not  alcohol  be  included  ? 

From  the  hold  this  subject  has  taken  of  tlio  most 
intelligent  here,  I  look  for  a  great  jnttlioln^ical  re- 
form, which  I  think  cannot  fail  to  set  the  principle 


of  total  abstinence  upon  a  more  commanding  founda- 
tion than  it  has  hitherto  occupied.  If  you  can  get 
the  wine  out  of  the  heads  of  the  philanthropic  of  the 
higher  class,  then  will  they  see  clearly  the  effects  of 
beer  upon  the  lower.  Both  once  delivered,  the  na- 
tion would  not  be  long  in  discovering  the  folly  of 
working  itself  to  death  to  support  a  class  of  grand 
and  idle  hereditary  pickpockets,  nor  long  in  devising 
means  of  relief.  See  if  the  new  vision  bestowed 
upon  the  Irish  people  does  not  work  out  such 
results.  England  wants  an  occulist  like  Father 
Mathew. 


"VVE  ARE  BRITHEREN  A'. 

BY  ROBERT   MCOLL. 

A  happy  bit  hame  this  auld  warld  wad  be, 

If  men,  when  they're  here,  could  make  shift  to  agree, 

-An'ilk  said  to  his  neebour,  in  cottage  an'  ha', 

'  Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand,  we  are  britheren  a'.' 

I  ken  na  why  ane  wi'  anither  sud  fight, 
Whan  to  'gree  wad  make  a'  body  cosie  an'  right. 
Whan  man  meets  wi'  man,  tis  the  best  way  ava, 
To  ^ly,  '  Gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  britheren  a'.' 

My  coat  is  a  coarse  ane,  an'  yours  may  be  fine, 
An'  I  maun  drink  water,  while  you  may  drink  wine. 
But  we  baith  ha'e  a  leal  heart,  unspotted  to  shaw, 
Sae  gi'e  me  your  hand — wc  are  britheren  a'. 

The  knave  ye  wad  scorn,  the  unfaithfu'  deride  ; 
Ye  wad  stand  like  a  rock,  wi'  the  truth  on  your  side  ; 
Sae  wad  I,  an'  nought  else  wad  I  value  a  straw  ; 
Then  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  britheren  a'. 

Ye  wad  scorn  to  do  fausely  by  woman  or  man  ; 
I  hand  by  the  right  aye,  as  weel  as  I  can ; 
We  are  ane  in  our  joys,  our  affections,  an'  a'  ; 
Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  britheren  a'. 

Your  mither  has  lo'ed  you  as  mithers  can  lo'e; 
An'  mine  has  done  for  me  what  mithers  can  do ; 
We  are  ane  hie  an'  laigh,  an'  we  should  na  be  twa — 
Sae  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  britheren  a'. 

We  luve  the  same  simmer  day,  sunnj^  an'  fair  ; 
Hame  I  0  !  how  we  lo'e  it,  an'  a'  that  aye  there  ! 
Frae  the  pure  air  o'  Heaven  the  same  life  we  draw — 
Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  britheren  a'. 

Frail  shakin'  Auld  Age  will  sune  come  o'er  us  baith, 
An'  creepin'  alang  at  his  back  will  be  Death ; 
Syne  into  the  same  mither  yird  we  will  fa' : 
Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  britheren  a'. 


"  God  is  better  lodged  in  the  heart  than  in  great 
edifices." 

"  By  taking  revenge  a  man  is  but  even  with  his 
enemy;  but  in  passing  it  over  he  is  superior." 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED 


45 


THE  CHRISTIAN  VIRGIN 

TO     HER     APOSTATE     LOVER. 

Oh,  lost  to  faith,  to  place,  to  Heaven— 

Canst  thou  a  recreant  be 
To  Him  whose  life  for  thine  was  given, 

Whose  cross  endured  for  thee  ? 
Canst  thou  for  earthly  joys  resign 
A  love  immortal,  pure,  divine  ; 
Yet  link  thy  plighted  troth  to  mine, 

And  cleave  unchanged  to  me  ! 

Thou  canst  not ;  and  'tis  breathed  in  vain — 

Thy  sophistry  of  love. 
'Tis  not  in  pride  or  cold  disdain 

Thy  falsehood  I  reprove. 
Inly  my  heart  may  bleed — but  yet 
Mine  is  no  weak,  no  vain  regret. 
Thy  wrongs  to  me  I  might  forget, 

But  not  to  Him  above. 

Cease  then  thy  fond  impassioned  vow 

In  happier  hours  so  dear. 
No  virgin  pride  restrains  me  now, 

I  must  not  turn  to  hear  ; 
For  still  my  erring  heart  might  prove 
Too  weak  to  spurn  thy  proffered  love. 
And  tears— though  feigned  and  false— might 
move, 

And  prayers,  though  insincere. 

But  no. — The  tie  so  firmly  bound 

Is  torn  asunder  now ; 
How  deep  that  sudden  wrench  may  wound 

It  reeks  not  to  avow. 
Go  thou  to  fortune  and  to  fame, 
I  sink  to  sorrow — suffering — shame — 
Yet  think,  when  glory  gilds  thy  name, 

I  would  not  be  as  thou. 

Thou  canst  not  light  or  wavering  deem 

My  bosom,  all  thy  own, 
Thou  knowest,  in  joys  enlivening  beam. 

Or  fortune's  adverse  frown. 
My  pride — my  bliss  had  been  to  share 
Thy  hopes ;  to  soothe  thine  hours  of  care  ; 
"With  thee  the  martyr-cross  to  bear, 

Or  win  the  martyr's  crown. 

Tis  o'er — ^but  never  from  my  heart 

Shall  time  thine  image  blot. 
The  dreams  of  other  days  depart. 

Thou  shalt  not  be  forgot ; 
And  never  in  the  suppliant  sigh 
Poured  forth  to  Him  who  sways  the  sky 
Shall  my  own  name  be  breathed  on  high, 

And  thine  remembered  not. 

Farewell !  and  oh  may  He  whose  love 
Endures,  though  man's  rebel, 


In  mercy  yet  this  guilt  reprove — 

Thy  dark'ning  clouds  dispel. 
Whe'ere  thy  wandering  steps  decline, 
My  fondest  prayers, — nor  only  rniae-|-r^^ 
The  aid  of  Israel's  God — be,  thinej-^ 
And  in  his  name—  " 


CHILDR 


BY      PARK      BENJ 


Unto  me  there  are  no  blessings. 

Which  high  Heaven,  indulgent,  lends. 
Dearer  than  the  sweet  caressings 
Of  my  little  friends. 

When  they  flock,  like  birds,  about  me — 

Birds  in  rainbow  plumage  clad — 
Their  bright  looks  and  thrilling  voices 
Make  my  spirit  glad. 

Pure,  confiding,  free  from  sorrow, 

Free  from  even  a  shade  of  sin, 
They,  like  lilies  in  their  glory. 
Neither  toil  nor  spin. 

Wicked  tongues  have  not  assailed  them. 

Or  the  serpent,  slander,  stung. 
Or  the  poisonous  ivy  clambered 
Their  green  leaves  among. 

Parasites,  and  false  companions. 

Have  not  stolen  their  guileless  trust, 
And  their  tenderest  flowers  of  feeling 
Trampled  in  the  dust. 

Dark  suspicion,  envy,  malice — 

Fiends  to  man  and  foes  to  God — 

Never  scathed  the  blooming  gardens 

By  their  footsteps  trod. 

Mother-love  has  folded  round  tliem 

Arms  more  soft  than  angel's  wings. 
And  with  sweeter  accents  lulled  them 
Than  an  angel  sings. 

Father-love,  defending,  keeping, 

Leading  strengthening,  cheering,  throws 
Its  broad  shield  above  them,  waking 
Or  in  deep  repose. 

Gentle  darlings,  spotless  creatures. 

How,  through  many  a  live-long  day, 
Have  I,  neither  vexed  nor  weary. 
Joined  your  merry  play  1 

I,  a  lonely  man,  am  friendless 

Never  where  yoimg  children  be  ; 

Though  my  love  for  them  be  endless, 

Large  is  theirs  for  me. 


46 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


NELLY    BELCHER. 

Uncle  Snooks  had  a  pretty  hard  time  on  it  some- 
times, when  the  women  folks  used  to  come  and 
plague  him  about  not  selling  any  more  rum  to  their 
husbands.  There  was  one  Barney  Belcher,  who 
drank  up  his  farm.  They  used  to  say  his  old  cow 
choked  him,  because  he  sold  her  last  of  all  his  stock, 
and  died  in  a  fit,  while  he  was  drinking  the  very 
first  dram  that  he  bought  with  the  money  he  got  for 
her.  Barney's  wife  tormented  uncle  'Zeik  from 
morning  to  night;  and  her  persecution,  together 
with  the  loss  of  his  property,  as  I  always  thought, 
drove  him  out  of  his  business,  and  shortened  his 
days.  She  was  a  proper  firebrand,  though  she  never 
took  any  spirit  herself.  There  was  not  a  happier 
couple  in  our  parish,  when  they  were  first  married; 
and  they  had  a  faihily  of  four  little  children,  that 
every  body  used  to  notice,  for  their  neat  appearance, 
I've  seen  them  many  a  time,  of  a  Sunday  going  to 
meeting,  hand  in  hand,  and  all  four  abreast,  along 
with  their  father  and  mother.  Barney  was  a  very 
thrifty  farmer,  and  I  never  thought  he  was  the 
man  to  die  a  drunkard.  It  used  to  be  said,  that 
there  had'nt  been  a  likelier  couple  married  in  the 
parish  for  many  years ;  for  though  they  had  almost 
nothing  to  start  with,  yet  they  were  amazing  hand- 
some to  look  at ;  they  were  generally  as  smart  as  a 
couple  of  steel  traps,  and  very  industrious  into  the 
bargain.  They  did  surprising  well  for  years.  But 
he  got  to  be  an  ensign,  and  rum  and  regimentals  did 
the  business  for  poor  Barney  in  less  than  no  time. 
When  he  got  to  be  pretty  bad,  she  first  came  to  the 
house,  and  then  to  the  shop,  to  get  uncle  'Zeik  not 
to  let  him  have  any  more  liquor.  They  had  a  good 
many  talks  about  it,  but  uncle  'Zeik  would  have  his 
way.  At  last  she  consulted  a  lawyer,  and  came 
over  to  the  shop,  and  gave  uncle  'Zeik  a  real  dres- 
sing, before  more  than  a  dozen  customers.  "  Well, 
Nelly  Belcher,"  said  uncle  'Zeik,  when  she  came  in, 
resolved  to  be  beforehand  with  her,  "what  do  you 
want  to-day?"  "Mercy,"  said  she,  "if  I  can't 
have  justice.  You  well  know  what  I  want.  I  now 
request  you  once  again  to  sell  my  husband  no  more 
spirits."  "  And  how  can  I  help  it?''  said  uncle 'Zeik, 
somewhat  disturbed  by  her  resolute  manner.  "I 
have  taken  a  lawyer's  advice,"  said  she,  "and  you 
have  no  right  to  sell  liquor  to  common  drunkards." 
«'  Do  you  say  that  your  husband  is  a  common 
drunkard?"  said  he.  "To  be  sure  I  do,"  she 
replied.  <'  I  really  do  not  think  your  hasband  is 
a  common  drunkard,  Nelly  Belcher,"  said  uncle 
'Zeik.  "  Snooks,"  said  she,  clinching  her  fist,  "  you 
are — what  you  are.  You  know  that  Barney  is  a 
common  drunkard,  and  you  made  him  so,  you  old — 
licensed,  rumselling,  church  member."  "  Go  out  of 
my  shop,"  cried  uncle  'Zeik;  stopping  towards  her. 
>'  I  would'nt  touch  the  poor  woman,"  said  one  of  the 
company  ;    "  she's  driven  on  by  the  state  of  her  hus- 


band and  children."  "Touch  the  |  cor  woman!" 
cried  Nelly,  stretching  herself  up — and  she  was  the 
tallest  woman  in  the  parish — "  let  him  lay  the 
weight  of  his  rummy  finger  upon  me  if  he  dares ; 
and,  though  I'm  poor  enough  in  purse.  Heaven 
knows,  I'll  show  him  that  I've  the  same  spirit  of  my 
father,  who  thrashed  him  when  he  was  eighteen,  for 
stealing  a  sheep-skin.  I  won't  go  out  of  his  shop, 
nor  budge  an  inch,  till  I've  said  my  say,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  ye  all."  "  Nelly  Belcher,"  said  uncle  'Zeik, 
"  you'll  have  to  pay  for  this."  "  Pay  for  it !''  cried 
Nelly,  in  a  screaming  voice,  "and  hav'nt  you  got 
your  pay  already  ? — Hav'nt  you  got  the  homestead 
and  the  stock  and  the  furniture  ?  And  did'nt  Bar- 
ney pawn  the  children's  clothes  last  Friday,  and 
bring  you  every  cent  he  got  for  them  ?  You've  got 
every  thing  from  the  ridge-pole  down  ;  you've  got 
all  here,  among  your  wages  of  iniquity;  and  as  she 
said  this,  she  gave  a  blow  with  her  fist,  upon  the 
top  of  uncle  'Zeik's  till,  that  made  the  coppers 
pretty  lively  I  tell  ye.  "  Snooks"  said  she,  "  you've 
got  every  thing.  I  have  not  a  pint  of  meal,  nor  a 
peck  of  potatoes  for  my  children.  Stop — I'm  mis- 
taken, there's  an  old  rum  jug  in  the  house,  that's 
been  in  your  shop  often  enough ;  you  ought  to  have 
that ;  and  there's  a  ragged  straw  bed,  you  shall 
have  them  both,  and  any  thing  else  you'll  find,  if 
you  don't  let  Barney  have  any  more  rum.  You've 
made  your  bargain,  Snooks,  your  own  way ;  but 
there's  a  third  party  to  it,  that's  the  devil.  You've 
got  poor  Barney's  money  in  your  till,  and  the  devil's 
got  your  soul  in  his  fire-proof,  and  he'll  keep  it  there 
till  the  day  of  judgment."  L^ncle  'Zeik  offered 
'Bijah  Cody  a  handsome  present,  if  he'd  turn  her  out 
of  the  shop.  "  I'd  a  leetle  rather  not,  Mr.  Snooks," 
answered  'Bijah  with  a  look  that  showed  plainly 
enough  how  much  he  enjoyed  uncle  'Zeik's  torment. 
"  Look  here  Nelly  Belcher,"  said  uncle  'Zeik — and 
he  was  getting  y^Tathy,  for  he  stamped  his  foot  pretty 
smart — "the  second  Tuesday  in  November  ne.xt 
the  court  will  sit,  and  you  shall  answer  for  this." 
"  What  care  I  for  your  court?"  replied  she  "the 
day  will  come  and  it  may  come  this  hour  when  a 
higher  court  may  sit ;  and  you  shall  answer  for 
more  than  all  this  a  thousand  fold.  Then  you  cold 
hearted  old  man.  I  will  lead  my  poor  ragged  child- 
ren, before  the  bar  of  a  righteous  God  and  make  a 
short  story  of  their  wrongs,  and  that  poor  young 
man's  who  has  fallen  by  your  hands,  just  as  though 
he  had  been  killed  with  ratsbane.  There's  none  of 
you  here  that  does'nt  remember  me  and  Barney 
when  we  were  first  married.  Now,  I  ask  you  if 
ever  you  dreampt  that  we  should  come  to  this  ? 
Was  there  ever  a  little  farm  better  managed! — And  if 
I  was  not  a  careful,  faithful  industrious  wife  to  Bar- 
ney, I  wish  you  to  say  the  very  worst  to  my  face. 
And  were  my  little  ones  ill-treated  ?  Had'nt  they 
whole  clothes  for  Sunday,  and  was'nt  they  constant 
at  meeting  for   years,  till  this  curse' crept   in   upon 


VOICES      OF     THE     TRUE-HEARTED, 


47 


us,  like  an  adder?  And  till  then  did  ye  ever  see  a 
likelier  man  than  Barney  ?  And  as  for  his  kindness  to 
mc  and  the  children  till  that  hour,  it's  for  me  to  wit- 
ness ;  and  I  say  it  before  ye  all,  that  before  he  tasted 
this  old  man's  liquor,  there  never  v\"as  a  hard  thought 
or  a  bitter  word  between  us.  He  was  the  boy  of  my 
foolish  love  when  he  was  seventeen,  and  the  man  of 
my  choice  when  he  was  three  and  twenty.  I  gave 
him  an  honest  heart  that  never  loved  another,  and 
the  trifle  of  worldly  goods  that  my  mother  left  me  ; 
but  he  has  broken  the  one  and  squandered  the  other. 
Last  night,  as  I  lay  upon  my  straw  bed,  with  my 
poor  children,  I  thought  of  our  young  days,  and  of 
our  little  projects  of  happiness  ;  and,  as  I  saw  poor 
Barney  in  my  fancy  just  the  trim  lad  that  he  was 
with  his  bright  eye  and  ruddy  cheek,  I  felt  my  eyes 
filling  with  tears,  as  they're  filling  now.  I  hope  I 
may  never  shed  another,"  said  she,  dashing  them  off 
with  the  back  of  her  hand,  and  resuming  her  look 
of  vengeance.  "  I'm  going  to  cross  your  threshold 
for  the  last  time,  and  now  mark  me  well,  I  ask  you 
once  for  all,  to  sell  poor  Barney  no  more  liquor.  If 
you  do,  I  will  curse  you  till  I  die,  as  the  destroyer 
of  my  husband,  and  I  will  teach  my  children  to  curse 
you  when  I  am  dead  and  gone,  as  the  destroyer  of 
their  father. 

^'  Uncle  Snooks  continued  to  sell  rum  to  Barney 
Belcher,  as  before,  whenever  he  got  any  money.  It 
was  thought  by  a  good  many  that  Nelly  had  lost 
her  reason,  or  very  near  it,  about  that  time.  She 
found  out  that  Barney  got  rum  at  our  store,  and  sure 
enough,  she  brought  her  four  little  children,  and 
standing  close  to  the  shop  door,  she  cursed  uncle 
'Zeik,  and  made  them  do  so  too.  It  worried  him 
exceedingly.  Whenever  she  met  him  in  the  road, 
she  stopped  short,  and  said  over  a  form  she  had,  in 
a  low  voice  ;  but  every  body  knew,  by  her  raising 
her  eyes  and  hands,  that  she  was  cursing  uncle 
'Zeik.  Very  few  blamed  her  ;  her  case  was  a  very 
hard  one  ;  and  most  folks  excused  her  on  the  score 
of  her  mind's  being  disordered  by  her  troubles. 
But  even  then  she  made  her  children  obey  her,  whe- 
ther present  or  absent,  though  it  was  said  she  never 
struck  them  a  blow.  It  almost  made  me  shudder 
sometimes,  when  I've  seen  these  children  meet 
uncle  'Zeik.  They'd  get  out  of  his  way  as  far  as 
they  could  ;  and  when  he  had  gone  by,  they'd  move 
their  lips,  though  you  could'nt  hear  a  word,  and 
raise  up  their  eyes  and  hands  just  as  their  mother 
had  taught  them.  When  I  thought  these  children 
were  calling  down  the  vengeance  of  heaven  upon 
uncle  'Zeik,  for  having  made  them  fatherless,  it 
made  my  blood  run  cold. 

After  the  death  of  her  husband,  she  became  very 
melancholy,  and  a  great  deal  more  so,  after  the  loss 
of  her  two  younger  children.  She  did  not  curse 
uncle  'Zeik  after  that.     But  she  always  had  a  talent 


for  rhyming ;  and  she  used  to  come  and  sit  upon  the 
horse-block  before  our  shop,  and  sing  a  sort  of  song, 
that  was  meant  to  worry  uncle  'Zeik,  and  it  did  worry 
him  dreadfully,  especially  the  chorus.  Whenever 
he  heard  that,  he  seemed  to  forget  what  he  was 
about,  and  every  thing  went  wrong.  'Twas  some- 
thing like  this — 

He  ilua:  a  pit  as  deep  as  hell. 
And  into  it  many  a  drunkard  fell  ; 
He  dug  the  pit  for  son! id  pelf, 
And  into  that  pit  he'll  fall  himself. 

One  time  when  poor  Nelly  sung  the  chorus  pretty 
loud,  and  the  shop  was  rather  full,  uncle  'Zeik  was 
so  c"onfused  that  he  poured  half  a  pint  of  rum,  which 
he  had  measured  out.  into  his  till  and  dropped  the 
change  into  the  tin  pot,  and  handed  it  to  the  cus- 
tomer. 

I  really  felt  for  him;  for  aboixt  this  time,  two  of 
his  sons  gave  him  a  sight  of  trouble.  They  used  to 
get  drunk  and  fight  like  serpents.  They  shtit  the 
oldgentleman  down  in  the  cellar  one  night,  and  one  of 
them  when  he  was  drunk  slapped  his  father  in  the 
face.  They  did  nothing  but  run  him  into  debt;  and 
at  last  he  got  to  taking  too  much  himself,  just  to 
drown  care.  Old  Nelly  was  right ;  for  uncle  Snooks 
fell  into  his  own  pit  before  he  died. 

After  the  Temperance  Society  was  formed,  he 
lost  his  license,  and  got  to  be  starving  poor,  and 
the  town  had  to  maintain  him.  He's  been  crazy  for 
several  years.  I  went  to  see  him  last  winter 
with  father,  who  has  tried  to  get  him  into  the  state 
hospital.  It  made  me  feel  ugly  to  see  him.  He 
did'nt  know  me,  but  all  the  time  I  was  there  he 
kept  turning  his  thumb  and  finger  as  though  he  was 
drawing  liquor,  or  scoring  it  with  a  bit  of  chalk 
upon  the  wall.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  forgotten  all 
his  customers  but  one  ;  for  though  the  wall  was 
covered  with  charges  of  rum  and  brandy  and  flip  and 
toddy,  the  whole  was  set  down  against  Barney 
Belcher. 


SONNET. 

BY    WILLIAM    LLOYD    GARRISON. 

How  fall  fame's  pillars  at  the  touch  of  time  ! 

How  fade,  like  flowers,  the  memories  of  the  dead ! 
How  vast  the  grave  that  swallows  up  a  clime  ! 

How  dim  the  light  by  ancient  glory  shed  ! 
One  generation's  clay  enwraps  the  next, 

And  dead  men  are  the  aliment  of  earth  ; 
i<  Passing  away,"  is  Nature's  funeral  text, 

Uttered  co-evous  with  creation's  birth. 
What  though  'tis  certain  that  my  humble  name, 

With  this  frail  body,  shall  .soon  find  a  tomb  ? 
It  seeks  a  heavenly,  not  an  earthly  fame, 

Which  through  eternity  shall  brightly  bloom  : 
Write  it  within  thy  Book  of  Life,  O  Lord, 
And  in  "the  last  great  day,''  a  golden  crown  award ! 


48 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  ARENA. 

BY  EPES  SARGENT. 
Narrated  in  Gibbon's  Roman  Empire. 
Honoiir'tl  be  the  hero  evermore, 

Who  at  mercy's  call  has  nobly  died  ! 
Echoed  be  his  name  from  shore  to  shore, 
With  immortal  chronicles  allied! 

Verdant  be  the  turf  upon  his  dust, 

Bright  the  sky  above,  and  soft  the  air  ! 

In  the  grove  set  up  his  marble  bust. 
And  with  garlands  crown  it,  fresh  and  fair. 

In  melodious  numbers,  that  shall  live 
With  the  music  of  the  rolling  .spheres. 

Let  the  minstrel's  inspiration  give 
His  eulogium  to  the  future  years  ! 

Not  the  victor  in  his  country's  cause, 
Not  the  chief  who  leaves  a  people  free, 

Not  the  framer  of  a  nation's  laws 

Shall  deserve  a  greater  fame  than  he  ! 

Hast  thou  heard,  in  Rome's  declining  day, 
How  a  youth,  by  Christian  zeal  impell'd, 

Swept  the  sanguinary  games  away. 
Which  the  Coliseum  once  beheld  ? 

Fill'd  with  gazing  thousands  were  the  tiers, 
With  the  city's  chivalry  and  pride, 

When  two  Gladiator's  with  their  spears, 
Forward  sprang  from  the  arena's  side. 

Rang  the  dome  with  plaudits  loud  and  long. 
As,  with  shields  advanced,  the  athletes  stood. 

Was  there  no  one  in  that  eager  throng 
To  denounce  the  spectacle  of  blood  ? 

Ay,  Tehinachus,  with  swelling  frame. 

Saw  the  inhuman  sport  renew'd  once  more  : 

Few  among  the  crowd  could  tell  his  name — 
]f*or  a  cross  was  all  the  badge  he  wore  ! 

Yet  with  brow  elate  and  God-like  mien, 
Stepped  he  forth  upon  the  circling  sand  ; 

And,  while  all  were  wondering  at  the  scene, 
Check'd  the  encounter  with  a  daring  hand. 

<'  Romans  !"  cried  he — "  Let  this  recking  sod 
Never  more  with  human  blood  be  stained  ! 

Let  no  image  of  the  living  God 
In  unhallowed  combat  be  profaned  ! 

Ah !   too  long  has  this  colossal  dome 

Fail'd  to  sink  and  hide  your  brutal  shows  ! 

Here  I  call  upon  assembled  Rome 

Now  to  swear,  they  shall  forever  close  !" 

Parted  thus,  the  combatants,  with  joy, 
Mid  the  tumult,  found  the  means  to  fly; 

In  the  arena  stood  the  undaunted  boy. 
And,  with  looks  adoring,  gazed  on  high. 


Peal'd  the  shout  of  wrath  on  every  side  ; 

Every  hand  was  eager  to  assail  ! 
'•  Slay  him  !  slay  !"  a  hundred  voices  cried, 

Wild  with  fury — but  he  did  not  quail! 

Hears  he,  as  entranced  he  looks  above, 
Strains  celestial,  that  the  menace  drown? 

Sees  he  angels,  with  their  eyes  of  love,   , 
Beckoning  to  him,  with  a  martyr's  crown  ? 

Fiercer  swell'd  the  people's  frantic  shout  ! 

Launched  against  him  flew  the  stones  like  rain! 
Death  and  terror  circled  him  about — 

But  he  stooil  and  perish'd — not  in  vain  ! 

Not  in  vain  the  youthful  martyr  fell ! 

Then  and  there  he  crush'd  a  bloody  creed  ! 
And  his  high  example  shall  impel 

Future  heroes  to  as  great  a  deed  ! 

Stony  answers  yet  remain  for  those 

Who  would  question  and  precede  the  time  ! 

In  their  season  may  they  meet  their  foes, 
Like  Telemachus,  with  front  sublime. 

SONNET. 

The  Anniversary  of  Lovejoy's  Martyrdom. 

BT    MAKIA    WESTON    CHAPMAN. 

No  tears  to-day  !  a  lofty  joy  should  crown 
A  deed  of  lofty  sacrifice  like  thine, 
LovEJOY  !  and  bid  thy  name  with  honor  shine, 

As  to  remotest  time  we  hand  it  down. 

That  seed  of  Liberty,  so  gladly  sown, — 
We  will  not  water  it  with  griefs  and  tears ; 
But,  o'er  its  harvest  in  the  future  years 

Rejoice,  as  those  before  whose  gaze  hath  shone 

A  vision  of  the  faithful,  girt  to  die 

'Mid  hostile  crowds,  in  darkness  for  the  right ; 
Yet  may  we  mourn  that,   ringing  through  the 
night. 

Sharply  to  theirs  thine  answering  shots  reply. 
Tears  for  the  blood  of  others  shed  by  thee  ; — 
Joy  for  thy  blood  poured  forth  so  joyous  1  y  and  free. 

THE  STREET. 

BY    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELt. 

They  pass  me  by  like  shadows,  crowds  on  crowds. 

Dim  ghosts  of  men,  that  hover  to  and  fro. 
Hugging  their  bodies  round  them,  like  thin  shrouds 

Wherein  their  souls  were  buried  long  ago  ; 
They  trampled  on  their  faith,  and  youth,  and  love — 

They  cast  their  hope  of  humankind  away — 
With  Heaven's  clear  messages  they  madly  strove. 

And  conquered — and  their  spirits  turned  to  cl.iy  : 
Lo  !  how  they  wander  round  the  world,  their  grave, 

Whose  ever-gaping  maw  by  such  is  fed, 
Gibbering  at  living  men,  and  idly  rave, 

"  We  only  truly  live,  but  ye  are  dead." 
Alas,  jioor  fools!  the  anointed  eye  may  trace 
A  dead  soul's  epitaph  in  every  face. 


VOICES  OE  THE  TRUE  HEAETED. 


FOR  BEHOLD  THE  KINGDOM  OF  GOD  IS 
WITHIN    YOU." 

BY     HARRIET       WINSLOW. 

Pilgrim  to  the  heavenly  city, 

Groping  wildered  on  thy  way  — 

Look  not  to  the  outward  landmark, 

List  not  what  the  blind  guides  say. 

For  long  years  thou  hast  been  seeking 
Some  new  idol  found  each  day; 

All  that  dazzled,  all  that  glittered. 
Lured  thee  from  the  path  away. 

On  the  outward  world  relying. 

Earthly  treasures  thou  wouldst  heap  ; 

Titled  friends  and  lofty  honors 

Lull  thy  higher  hopes  to  sleep. 

Thou  art  stored  with  worldly  wisdom, 
All  the  lore  of  books  is  thine  : 

And  within  thy  stately  mansion. 
Brightly  sparkle  wit  and  wine. 

Richly  droop  the  silken  curtains, 

Round  those  high  and  mirrored  halls ; 

And  on  mossy  Persian  carpets. 
Silently  thy  proud  step  falls. 

Not  the  gentlest  wind  of  heaven 

Dares  too  roughly  fan  thy  brow. 

Nor  the  morning's  blessed  sunbeams 
Tinge  thy  cheek  with  ruddy  glow. 

Yet  midst  all  these  outward  riches, 
Has  thy  heart  no  void  confessed — 

Whispering,  though  each  wish  be  granted, 
Still,  oh  still  I  am  not  blessed? 

And  when  happy,  careless  children. 

Lured  thee  with  their  winning  ways — 

Thou  hast  sighed  in  vain  contrition, 
Give  me  back  those  golden  days. 

Hadst  thou  stooped  to  learn  their  lesson, 
Truthful  preachers — they  had  told 

Thou  thy  kingdom  hast  forsaken. 

Thou  hast  thy  own  birthright  sold. 

Thou  art  heir  to  vast  possessions. 
Up,  and  boldly  claim  thine  own  : 

Seize  the  crown — that  waits  thy  wearing — 
Leap  at  once  into  thy  throne. 
7 


Look  not  to  some  cloudy  mansion, 

'Mong  the  planets  far  away  ,• 
Trust  not  to  the  distant  future. 

Let  thy  Heaven  begin  to-day. 

When  thy  struggling  soul  hath  conquered, — 
When  the  path  lies  fair  and  clear — 

When  thou  art  prepared  for  Heaven, 
Thou  wilt  find  that  Heaven  is  here. 


THE  BROTHERHOOD   OF   MAN. 

BY    JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

The  population  of  Lowell  is  constituted  mainly  of 
New  Englanders,  but  there  are  representatives  here 
of  almost  every  part  of  the  civilized  world.  The 
good-humored  face  of  the  Milesian  meets  one  at  al. 
most  every  turn, — the  shrewdly  solemn  Scotchman, 
the  trans-Atlantic  Yankee,  blending  the  crafty  thrift 
of  Bryce  Snailsfoot  with  the  stern  religious  heroism 
of  Cameron,— the  blue-eyed,  fair-haired  German, 
from  the  towered  hills  which  overlook  the  Rhine, 
slow,  heavy,  and  unpromising  in  his  exterior,  yet  of 
the  same  mould  and  mettle  of  the  men  who  rallied 
for  "  Father-Land"  at  the  Tyrtean  call  of  Korner, 
and  beat  back  the  chivalry  of  France  from  the  baniis 
of  the  Katzbach— the  countryman  of  Ritcher,  and 
Goethe,  and  our  sainted  Follen.  Here,  too,  are  ped- 
lars from  Hamburgh,  and  Bavaria,  and  Poland,  with 
their  sharp  Jewish  faces  and  black  keen  eyes.  At 
this  moment,  beneath  my  window,  are  two  sturdy, 
sun-browned  Swiss  maidens,  grinding  music  for  a 
livelihood,  rehearsing  in  a  strange  Yankee  land  the 
simple  songs  of  their  old  mountain  home,  reminding 
me  by  their  foreign  garb  and  language,  of 
"Lauterbrunnen's  peasant  girl." 

Poor  wanderers!— I  love  not  their  music  ;  but  now 
as  the  notes  die  away,  and,  to  use  the  words  of  Dr. 
Holmes,  "silence  comes  like  a  poultice  to  heal  the 
M'ounded  ear,"  I  feel  grateful  for  their  visitation. — 
Away  from  the  crowded  thoroughfare,  from  brick 
walls  and  dusty  avenues,  at  the  sight  of  these  poor 
peasants  I  have  gone  in  thought  to  the  vale  of  Chau- 
mony,  and  seen,  with  Coleridge,  the  Morning  Star 
pausing  on  the  "bald  awful  head  of  Sovran  Blanc," 
and  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset  glorious  upon  snowy- 
crested  mountains,  down  in  whose  vallies  the  night 
still  lingers— and  following  in  the  track  of  Byron 
and  Rousseau,  have  watched  the  lengthening  shadows 


50 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


of  the  hills  on  the  beautiful  waters  of  the  Genevan 
lake.  Blessings,  then,  upon  these  young  wayfarers, 
for  they  have  "  blessed  me  unawares."  In  an  hour 
of  sickness  and  lassitude,  they  have  wrought  for  me 
the  miracle  of  Lorretto's  chapel,  and  borne  me  away 
from  the  scenes  around  me  and  the  sense  of  ])ersonal 
suffering,  to  that  wonderful  land  where  Nature  seems 
still  uttering,  from  lake  and  valley  and  mountains 
whose  eternal  snows  lean  on  the  hard  blue  heaven, 
the  echoes  of  that  mighty  hymn  of  a  new-created 
world,  when  "  the  morning  stars  sang  together,  and 
all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy  !" 

But  of  all  classes  of  foreigners  the  Irish  are  by  far 
the  most  numerous.  They  constitute  a  quiet  and  in- 
dustrious portion  of  the  population  ;  and  are  conse- 
quently respected  by  their  Yankee  neighbors.  For 
myself,  I  confess  I  feel  a  sympathy  for  the  Irishman. 
I  see  him  as  the  representative  of  a  generous,  warm- 
hearted and  cruelly  oppressed  people.  That  he  loves 
his  native  land — that  his  patriotism  is  divided — that 
he  cannot  forget  the  claims  of  his  mother  island — 
that  his  religion,  with  all  its  abuses,  is  dear  to  him — 
does  not  decrease  my  estimation  of  him.  A  stran- 
ger in  a  stange  land,  he  is  to  me  always  an  object 
of  interest.  The  poorest  and  rudest  has  a  romance 
in  his  history.  Amidst  all  his  apparent  gayety  of 
heart,  and  national  drollery  and  wit,  the  poor  emi- 
grant has  sad  thoughts  of  the  "ould  mother  of  him," 
sitting  lonely  in  her  solitary  cabin  by  the  bog-side — 
recollections  of  a  father's  blessing,  and  a  sister's 
farewell  are  haunting  him — a  grave-mound  in  a  dis- 
tant churchyard,  far  beyond  the  "wide  wathers,"  has 
an  eternal  greenness  in  his  memory — for  there  per- 
haps lies  a '^  darlint  child,"  or  a '<  swate  crather"  who 
once  loved  him, — the  New  World  is  forgotten  for 
the  moment — blue  Killarney  and  the  Liffy  sparkle  be- 
fore him — Glendalough  stretches  beneath  him  its 
dark  still  mirror — he  sees  the  same  evening  sunshine 
rest  upon  and  hallow  alike  with  Nature's  blessing 
the  ruins  of  the  Seven  Churches  of  Ireland's  apos- 
tolic age,  the  broken  mound  of  the  Druids,  and  the 
Round  Towers  of  the  Phenician  sun- worshippers, — 
beautiful  and  mournful  recollections  of  his  home 
waken  within  him — and  the  rough  and  seemingly 
careless  and  light-hearted  laborer  melts  into  tears. 
It  is  no  light  thing  to  abandon  one's  own  country 
and  household  gods.  Touching  and  beautiful  was 
the  injunction  of  the  Prophet  of  the  Hebrews  :  "  Ye 
shall  not  oppress  the  stranger,  yijr  ye  hnoiu  the  heart 
of  the  stranger,  seeing  that  ye  were  strangers  in  the 
land  of  Egypt." 

I  love  my  own  country — I  have  a  strong  New 
England  feeling  :  but  I  am  no  friend  of  that  narrow 
spirit  of  mingled  national  vanity  and  religious  intol- 
erance, which,  under  the  name  of  "  Native  Ameri- 
canism," has  made  its  appearance  among  us.  I  rev- 
erence man,  as  man.  Be  he  Irisli  or  Spanish,  black 
or  white,  he  is  my  brother  man.  I  have  no  prejudi- 
ces against  other   nations — I  cannot  regard  the  peo- 


ple of  England  as  my  enemies,  nor  sympathize  with 
that  blustering  sham-patriotism,  which  is  ever  ex- 
claiming, like  the  giant  of  the  nursery  tale  : 

"  Fee-faw-fum  ! 
I  RniPll  the  blood  of  an  Kiiglishman, 
Dead  or  alive,  I  will  have  some." 

I  remember  that  the  same  sun  which  shines  upon 
England's  royalty  and  priestcraft,  streams  also  into 
the  dusty  workshop  of  Ebenezer  Elliot — rests  on  the 
drab  coat  of  the  Birmingham  Quaker  Reformer — 
greets  0  Connell  through  the  grates  of  his  prison 
— glorifies  the  grey  locks  of  Clarkson,  and  gladdens 
the  heroic-hearted  Harriet  Martineau,  in  her  sick 
chamber  at  the  mouth  of  the  Tyne.  With  heart  and 
soul  I  respond  to  the  sentiments  of  Channing,  when 
speaking  of  a  foreign  nation  :  "That  nation  is  not 
an  abstraction  to  me ;  it  is  no  longer  a  vague  mass ; 
it  spreads  out  before  me  into  individuals,  in  a  thou- 
sand interesting  forms  and  relations  ;  it  consists  of 
husbands  and  wives,  parents  and  children,  who  love 
one  another  as  I  love  my  own  home  ;  it  consists  of 
affectionate  women  and  sweet  children  ;  it  consists 
of  Christians,  united  with  me  to  the  common  Savior, 
and  in  whose  spirit  I  reverence  the  likeness  of  his 
divine  virtue  ;  it  consists  of  a  vast  multitude  of  labor- 
ers at  the  plough  and  in  the  workshop,  whose  toils  I 
sympathize  with,  whose  burden  I  should  rejoice  to 
lighten,  and  for  whose  elevation  I  have  pleaded  ;  it 
consists  of  men  of  science,  taste,  genius,  whose  writ- 
ings have  beguiled  my  solitary  hours,  and  given  life 
to  my  intellect  and  best  affections.  I  love  this  na- 
tion :  its  men  and  women  are  my  brothers  and  sis- 
ters." 


THE    STRUGGLE    FOR  FAME. 

BY    CUARLES    MACKAY. 

If  thou  wouldst  win  a  lastin"-  fame ; 

If  thou  th'  immortal  wreath  wouldst  claim, 

And  make  the  Future  bless  thy  name  ; 

Begin  thy  perilous  career. 

Keep  high  thy  heart,  thy  conscience  clear, 

And  walk  thy  way  without  a  fear. 

And  if  thou  hast  a  voice  within 
That  ever  whispers,  "Work  and  win, 
And  keep  thy  soul  from  sloth  and  sin: 

If  thou  canst  plan  a  noble  deed. 

And  never  Hag  till  it  succeed, 

Though  in  the  strife  thy  heart  should  bleed: 

If  thou  canst  struggle  day  and  night. 
And,  in  the  envious  world's  despite. 
Still  keep  thy  cynosure  in  sight; 

If  thou  canst  bear  the  rich  man's  scorn: 
Nor  curse  the  day  that  thou  wert  born, 
To  feed  on  chaff,  and  he  on  corn: 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


51 


If  thou  canst  dine  upon  a  crust, 
And  still  hold  on  with  patient  trust, 
Nor  pine  that  Fortune  is  unjust: 

If  thou  canst  see  with  tranquil  breast, 
The  knave  or  fool  in  purple  dress'd, 
While  thou  must  walk  in  tatter'd  vest: 

If  thou  canst  rise  ere  break  of  day, 
And  toil  and  moil  till  evening  gray, 
At  thankless  work,  for  scanty  pay: 

If,  in  thy  progress  to  renown, 

Thou  canst  endure  the  scoff  and  frown 

Of  those  who  strive  to  pull  thee  down: 

If  thou  canst  bear  th'  averted  face, 
The  jibe,  or  treacherous  embrace, 
Of  those  who  run  the  self-same  race: 

If  thou  in  darkest  days  canst  find 
An  inner  brightness  in  thy  mind. 
To  reconcile  thee  to  thy  kind:  — 

Whatever  obstacles  control, 

Thine  hour  will  come — go  on — true  soul  ! 

Thou'lt  win  the  prize,  thou'lt  reach  the  goal! 

If  not — what  matters?  tried  by  fire, 

And  purified  from  low  desire. 

Thy  spirit  shall  but  soar  the  higher. 

Content  and  hope  thy  heart  shall  buoy. 
And  men's  neglect  shall  ne'er  destroy 
Thy  secret  peace,  thy  inward  joy. 

But  if  so  bent  on  worldly  fame, 
That  thou  must  gild  thy  living  name, 
And  snatch  the  honors  of  the  game; 

And  hast  not  strength  to  watch  and  pray. 
To  seize  thy  time  and  force  thy  way, 
By  some  new  combat  every  day: 

If  failure  might  thy  soul  oppress, 
And  fill  thy  veins  with  heaviness. 
And  make  thee  love  thy  kind  the  less: 

Thy  fame  might  rivalry  forestal, 
And  thou  let  tears  or  curses  fall. 
Or  turn  thy  wholesome  blood  to  gall ; 

Pause  ere  thou  tempt  the  hard  career, 
Thou'lt  find  the  conflict  too  severe. 
And  heart  will  break  and  brain  will  sear. 

Content  thee  with  a  meaner  lot ; 
Go  plough  thy  field,  go  build  thy  cot, 
Nor  sigh  that  thou  must  be  forgot. 


SONG  OF  THE  FREE. 

On  Freedom's  holy  altar-stone 
We  lay  this  day  our  hearts  as  one  ; 
And  deeply  as  those  hearts  can  feel. 
To  Freedom's  foes  they're  hearts  of  steel ! 

Hurrah  for  Freedom's  rising  sun! 

For  Freedom's  battle  well  begun ! 

Hurrah  for  Freedom's  chosen  one. 

For  him  for  whom  her  laurels  bloom ! 
Hurrah !  Hurrah !  Hurrah  I 

0,  not  alone  our  vows  we  pay; 
From  rising  to  the  setting  day, 
From  Maine  to  Huron's  prairie  flowers, 
A  thousand  voices  blen#wdth  ours ! 

Nor  hate,  nor  wrath,  nor  evil  deed. 
Nor  gift  of  blood  doth  Freedom  need  ; 
But  love,  whose  service  never  tires, 
And  zeal  to  watch  around  her  fires  ! 

In  joy  and  fait'n  the  seeds  we  cast. 
Of  Freedom's  truth  on  every  blast ; 
And  trust  to  Heaven's  own  dew  and  rain 
To  nurse  the  flower  and  swell  the  grain. 

Who  calls  thy  service.  Freedom,  hard? 
Who  feels  it  not  its  own  reward  ? 
Who  for  its  trials  deems  it  less 
A  cause  for  praise  and  thankfulness  ? 

O,  toil-worn  brothers,  be  of  cheer  ! 
Rejoice,  O  sisters,  gleaning  near  ! 
Like  fields  of  Heaven  before  your  eyes, 
The  promise  of  the  Future  lies  ! 

Hurrah  for  Freedom's  rising  sun  ! 

For  Freedom's  battle  well  begun  ! 

Hurrah  for  Freedom's  chosen  one, 

For  him  for  whom  her  laurels  bloom! 
Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  Hurrah  ! 


THE  POET. 

BY    J.\MES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

Poet !  who  sittest  in  thy  pleasant  room, 

Warming  thy  heart  with  idle  thoughts  of  love, 
And  of  a  holy  life  that  leads  above. 
Striving  to  keep  life's  spring  flowers  still  in  bloom, 
And  lingering  to  snuff  their  fresh  perfume, — 
O,  there  were  other  duties  meant  for  thee 
Than  to  sit  down  in  peacefulness  and  Be  ! 
O,  there  are  brother  hearts  that  dwell  in  gloom, 
Souls  loathsome,  foul,  and  black  with  daily  sin, 

So  crusted  o'er  with  baseness,  that  no  ray 
Of  Heaven's  blessed  light  may  enter  in  ! 

Come  down  then  to  the  hot  and  dusky  way, 
And  lead  them  back  to  hope  and  peace  again, — 
For,  save  in  act,  thy  love  is  all  in  vain. 


52 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


THE  MAN  OUT  OF  THE  MOOX. 


The  man  of  the  moon 
Came  down  at  noon. 


Perhnps  these  lines  occurn-d  to  some  of  the  indi- 
viduals who  witnessed  the  disappearance  of  the  man 
from  the  moon  one  balmy  summer  evening.  There 
must  have  been  at  least  one  astronomer,  poet,  luna- 
tic, and  pair  of  lovers  ;  and  how  many  more  may 
not  easily  be  ascertained.  But  the  moonshine  still 
came  down  so  gently,  and  the  space  vacated  by  that 
ancient  man  was  filled  with  such  calm  brightness, 
that  little  was  said  and  no  commotion  caused  by  his 
withdrawal  from  th^  place  where  he  had  been  an 
admired  fixture.  Had  he  dropped  down  among  any 
of  the  evening  watchers,  doubtless  there  would  have 
been  a  great  excitement — especially  among  children 
and  nurses,  with  whom  this  man  had  been  an  object 
of  greater  interest  than  any  other  class.  And,  as 
every  body  was  once  a  boy  or  girl,  there  might  have 
been  a  revival  of  affection  which  would  have  mani- 
fested itself  in  waving  of  handkerchiefs,  loud  huzzas, 
and  clapping  of  hands,  perhaps  in  ringing  of  bells, 
and  firing  of  cannon ;  and  who  knows  what  fine  din- 
ners might  have  been  given  him,  and  concerts,  also, 
in  which  a  few  particular  nursery  rhymes  migVit  have 
been  set  to  music  by  Vieux  Temps,  or  Ole  Bull,  and 
the  stranger  almost  paralysed  by  the  excess  of  joy- 
ous sensibility.  But  those,  who  knew  that  he  was 
gone,  could  not  of  course  tell  whether  he  had  started 
upon  a  journey  to  the  Sun,  or  to  Venus,  or  to  Hers- 
chel,  or  to  some  other  place  among  the  stars  ;  and 
perhaps  a  few  of  them  dreamed  that  he  had  come  on 
a  pilgrimage  of  love  to  the  Moon's  great  satellite, 
Earth.  But,  upon  the  same  principle  that  "  little 
boats  should  keep  near  the  shore,"  the  inexperienced 
traveller  had  wisely  resolved  that  his  first  voyage 
should  terminate  at  the  first  landing  place.  Whether 
those  were  moonstruck  who  first  saw  him 

"  Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Where  a  fair  lady  throned  by'the  west," 

held  state  upon  a  little  isl.ind — whether  they  were 
moonstruck  or  not,  matters  little ;  but  certainly  no 
skylark  ever  fluttered  into  nest  more  unregarded,  no 
eagle  ever  descended  into  its  nest  more  untroubled, 
no  snow-flake  ever  fell  into  its  deep  dingle  more  un- 
noticed, and  no  leaflet  ever  nestled  under  its  shadow- 
ing rork  more  quietly,  than  the  man  from  the  moon 
came  down,  when  he  alighted  under  the  broad  sha- 
dow of  a  noble  elm,  in  a  ducal  park. 

The  deer  turned  upon  him  their  large  lustrous 
eyes,  and  dartod  away  to  their  leafy  converts  ;  the 
rooks  slowly  wheeled  arnund  above  his  head,  and 
sailed  upon  the  breezes  of  their  leafy  homes ;  and 
the  watch.dog  met  him  at  the  portal  with  a  fawn  of 
afTection.  At  the  porter's  lodge  had  gathered  some 
of  the  juvenile  nobility,  and  with  the  utmost  cour- 


tesy they  received  unquestioned  the  remarkable 
stranger,  and  invited  him  to  their  princely  home. 

"  How  beautiful  is  Earth,"  said  the  man,  as  a  few 
days  afterwards  he  rambled  to  the  spot  where  he 
first  pressed  its  soil,  "  and  how  happy  are  her  child- 
dren.  Before  I  came  here  I  thought  that  peace  was 
more  common  than  bliss,  that  quiet  was  more  fre- 
qent  than  joy  ;  but  hitherto  1  have  investigated  at  a 
disadvantageous  distance,  and  here  I  find  that  my 
ignorance  was  proverbial.  Nevertheless,  I  have  the 
will  and  capacity  to  learn,  and  the  duke  himself 
shall  not  know  more  of  his  neighbors  than  I  will  as- 
certain." 

He  bounded  over  a  sweet-briar  hedge,  and  wended 
his  way  to  a  little  hamlet,  which  nestled  between 
the  grove  and  upland  at  a  short  distance.  He  enter- 
ed the  nearest  cot,  and  the  first  sound  which  reached 
his  ears  was  a  cry  for  bread. 

^^  Bread — bread  I"  repeated  he,  "I  saw  it  given 
to  the  dogs  this  morning.  Bread  I  there  is  enough 
at  the  castle.  Go  to  the  duchess,  my  child,  she  will 
give  you  enough  of  bread."  The  child  ceased  her 
cry,  but  looked  at  him  wonderingly,  and  an  elderly 
sister  shook  her  head,  yet  said  nothing.  Then  the 
man  heard  a  moan  from  a  low  pallet,  and  look- 
ing into  the  dark  recess,  he  saw  stretched  upon  it  the 
emaciated  form  of  a  woman.  She  called  the  girl  to 
her  side. 

'<  Is  there  not  a  little  more  wine  in  the  phial?" 
she  asked. 

"Not  one  drop,"  was  the  reply.  The  woman 
moaned  more  faintly. 

"Wine!  wine!"  repeated  the  man;  "we  drank 
last  night  at  the  castle  until  our  heads  ached,  and 
some  of  the  company  were  carried  away  drowned  by 
it.  Wtnc  and  Iread,-^'  he  repeated,  as  he  turned  upon 
his  heel,  and  flew  towards  the  castle. — He  entered 
the  drawing  room,  and  a  servant  passed  him  with  a 
silver  salver,  upon  which  were  refreshments  for  the 
ladies,  and  the  sideboard  was  covered  with  various 
wines.  He  grasped  a  bottle,  and  snatching  the  salver 
from  the  waiter,  he  turned  to  go.  But  the  astonished 
domestic  made  such  an  outcry,  and  vociferated, 
"  Thief!  Robber  !"  so  lustily  that  he  was  soon  over- 
token.  The  duke  came  to  learn  the  cause  of  the 
tumult. 

"  He  was  stealing  your  silver."  repeated  the  ser- 
vant, "after  all  your  kindness  to  him." 

The  duke  looked  at  his  mysterious  guest  with  a 
penetrating  eye. 

"  I  saw  a  child  almost  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
your  mansion,"  replied  the  man,  "  who  cried  for 
bread.  I  saw  also  a  woman  fainting  for  a  cordial, 
and  here  I  knew  that  there  was  enough  of  bread  and 
wine.  I  ran  that  they  might  the  sooner  be  relieved 
from  their  misery." 

The  duke  blushed  as  he  heard  the  simple  reply  of 
the  man,  and  almost  doubted  for  the  moment  whe- 
ther he  himself  were  a  man.     Bread  and  wine  were 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


53 


instantly  despatched  by  the  servant,  and  the  duke 
took  the  stranger  in*.o  his  closet.  What  lietohi  him 
there  is  what  my  readers  already  know — that  Want 
and  Misery  stand  even  within  the  sunsliine  of  Plenty 
and  Prosperity ;  that  Sickness,  Pain  and  Death  are 
in  the  daily  paths  of  the  rich  and  powerful ;  that  all 
these  things  are  looked  upon  as  necessary  evils,  and 
not  allowed  for  a  moment  to  interrupt  the  usual 
course  of  business  and  amusement.  But  he  could 
not  make  it  appear  to  the  man  out  of  the  Moon  as  it 
did  to  himself.  The  more  common  it  is,  the  more 
dreadful  it  seemed  to  this  wanderer  from  another 
sphere.  The  more  difficult  it  appeared  to  find  the 
remedy,  the  more  earnestly  he  thought  it  should  be 
sought.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  great  fault  was 
in  the  government,  and  at  its  head  was  a  lady  as 
young,  as  kind,  as  compassionate  as  the  duke's  eldest 
daughter.  He  left  the  castle,  and  hastened  to  the 
capitol.  He  lingered  not  by  the  way,  but  sighs  ob- 
truded themselves  upon  his  notice  which  gave  him 
much  pain.  He  sought  the  palace  ;  he  asked  audience 
of  the  queen.  He  brought  no  references,  no  intro- 
ductions, and  could  not  be  admitted  to  the  young 
sovereign  ;  but  his  earnestness  gained  him  an  inter- 
view with  one  of  her  counsellors.  He  had  so  much 
to  say,  and  knew  so  little  how  to  say  it,  his  ideas 
were  all  in  such  confusion,  that  it  was  some  time  be- 
fore the  minister  could  gather  aught  from  him. 

''To  the  point,"  said  he  at  length. — "  Tell  me, 
stranger,  what  you  want." 

"  I  want  EIGHT  !"  said  the  man.  :'  I  came  a  stran- 
ger to  your  land,  and  at  first,  all  appeared  to  me 
very  beautiful.  But  I  soon  found  hunger,  destitu- 
tion, and  death.  I  inquired  the  cause,  and  asked  for 
the  remedy.  I  was  told  there  was  none  ;  but  I  found 
that  if  relief  could  be  obtained  this  was  the  place  to 
look  for  it.  I  left  for  this  city.  I  hurried  on  my 
way ;  but  iinless  I  shut  my  eyes,  I  could  not  but  see 
wrong.  I  have  seen  huge  heaps  of  grain  converted 
into  liquid  poison,  and  starving  men  drunk  of  it  that 
they  might  drown  all  sense  of  want  and  misery.  I 
have  seen  broad  fields  lie  waste  as  pleasure  ground, 
while  squalid  crowds  were  faint  for  food.  I  saw  a 
mighty  ship  filled  with  brave  men  ;  and  their  gar- 
ments glittered  with  beauty,  and  gushing  strains  of 
music  stirred  their  noble  hearts.  1  thought  it  a  glo- 
rious sight,  but  I  learnt  that  they  were  sent  to  kill 
or  be  killed  of  their  fellow  men.  I  saw  a  high  and 
narrow  structure  spring  upward  to  the  sky ;  and  they 
brought  out  a  man  and  put  him  to  death  between  the 
heavens  and  the  earth.  Crowds  of  men  gazed  up- 
ward at  the  sight,  and  think  ye  not  that  God  looked 
down  ?  I  went  into  an  old  moss  grown  church,  and 
there  I  saw  the  man  who  prayed  at  the  gallows ;  and 
all  the  people  said  with  him  '  Be  ye  also  merciful, 
even  as  your  Father  in  Heaven  is  merciful.'  'For 
if  ye  forgive  not  men  their  trespasses,  how  will 
yoiu  Father  which  is  in  Heaven,  forgive  your  tres- 


passes ?'  But  the  more  my  spirit  was  pained  with- 
in me,  the  more  I  hurried  to  this  place.  And  when 
I  was  come  I  saw  mighty  palaces  for  the  accommoda- 
tion of  a  few,  and  I  saw  also  men  herding  together 
in  filth  and  wretchedness  ;  and  those  who  had  not 
where  to  lay  their  heads.  I  have  seen  warehouses 
filled  with  cloths  for  raiment,  and  stout  men  passed 
by  them  with  scarce  a  rag  to  cover  them  ;  yet  touch- 
ed they  nothing.  I  have  seen  bakeries  full  of  bread, 
and  storehouse  filled  with  other  food ;  and  savage 
looking  men  proved  that  they  were  not  yet  fiends, 
for  they  did  not  strike  dead  those  who  withheld 
from  them  these  provisions.  Even  here  I  have  seen 
dogs  and  horses  receive  the  attention  denied  to  man. 
You  ask  me  what  I  want  :  I  want  to  know  if  you 
have  known  aught  of  this  ;  and,  if  so,  why  stand  you 
here  idle?" 

"  Who  are  you?"  rejoined  the  astonished  cour- 
tier. 

"  The  man  out  of  the  Moon." 

"  Aha,  aha, — a  lunatic !  I  thought  as  much.  Now 
let  me  see  if  we  have  not  a  nice  place  for  you  which 
you  have  not  yet  espied ;''  and  calling  the  servants, 
he  ordered  them  to  take  the  man  to  the  hospital. 

But  he  slipped  from  their  grasp  and  was  soon  out 
of  the  way.  He  strayed  to  the  sea  side,  for  there 
was  there  less  of  the  misery  he  could  not  relieve. 
He  found  a  man  sitting  upon  a  solitary  rock,  and 
gazing  far  out  upon  the  waters.  There  was  that  in 
his  eye  which  told  the  Lunarian  that  there  he  might 
meet  with  sympathy.  So  they  sat  together,  while 
the  sea-winds  moaned  around  them,  and  talked  of 
wrong  and  oppression. 

"  But  why  do  the  people  bear  all  this  ?"  asked  the 
Man.  "  Why  do  they  not  rise  in  their  strength, 
and  demand  clothing,  food  and  shelter  ?  Why  do 
they  not  stretch  out  their  hands  and  take  it,  when 
almost  within  their  grasp  ?  Why  at  least  do  they 
not  die  as  men,  rather  than  live  like  beasts." 

"  They  are  enchanted, ^^  was  the  reply  of  the  phi- 
losopher. 

Then  the  Man  thought  how  impossible  it  would 
be  for  him  to  disenchant  them,  and  he  sighed ;  and 
when  the  philosopher  had  gone  he  unrobed  himself, 
and  spread  his  wings,  and  flew  across  the  channel 
till  he  came  to  another  land. 

We  will  not  follow  him,  as  he  strayed  through 
various  cities,  towns,  and  villages,  along  the  Medi- 
terranean. But  he  heard  of  it  everywhere — he  had 
heard  of  it  before  he  crossed  the  channel — of  a  happy 
land,  far  across  many  wide  waters — a  new  world, 
where  tyranny,  oppression,  and  corruption,  had  not 
found  time  to  generate  their  train  of  evils.  He 
yearned  for  this  better  land ;  and  one  night,  when 
the  sky  was  dark  with  sombre  clouds,  and  no  one 
could  witness  his  flight,  he  left  the  old  for  the  newer 
continent. 

He  alighted  at  the  plantation  of  a  wealthy  gentle- 


54 


VOICES   OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


man.  With  manly  courtesy  he  was  received,  and 
entertained  with  chivalrous  generosity  which  asked 
no  questions  of  the  stranger,  and  knew  nothing  but 
that  he  needed  rest.  He  was  truly  weary,  and  spent 
some  quiet  days  in  the  family  of  his  host,  for  whom 
he  formed  quite  an  attachment.  But  one  day  as  he 
vras  walking  in  the  grounds,  he  heard  the  voice  of 
piercing  lamentation.  He  looked  around,  and  saw  a 
negro  woman,  with  her  young  child  pressed  to  her 
bosom,  and  sobbing  as  though  her  heart  would 
break.  He  inquired  the  cause  of  her  sorrow,  and 
heard  that  her  husband  had  just  been  taken  away  to 
be  sold  to  another  master.  Her  children  had  been 
taken  from  her  long  before,  all  but  the  babe  upon 
her  breast. 

The  Man  could  not  understand  this  at  first,  but 
after  long  questioning  he  learned  some  of  the  evils  of 
slavery.  He  returned  to  his  host.  He  was  sitting 
with  his  wife  at  his  side,  and  his  child  upon  his 
knee.  He  caressed  them  both  with  affection.  The 
Man  looked  at  him  sternly, 

"How  dare  you  love  your  child?"  said  he. 
"How  dare  you  adore  your  wife?"  when  you  have 
separated  mother  and  child,  husband  and  wife,  and 
consigned  them  all  to  misery. 

"  Who  are  you?"  replied  the  host,  "that  you 
speak  thus  in  my  own  house,  where  as  yet  unques- 
tioned you  have  been  honored  and  cherished  as  a 
stranger  and  a  guest." 

"  I  am  the  man  out  of  the  Moon." 

Then  the  host  laughed  heartily.  "  Ah,  moon- 
struck, I  see,"  said  he,  carelessly  ;  and  touching  his 
head  he  nodded  to  his  wife.  After  this  they  would 
neither  of  them  heed  what  he  said,  but  treated  him 
good  humoredly,  as  a  maniac. 

In  the  neighborhood,  however,  he  met  not  with 
this  consideration,  for  he  would  not  hold  his  peace 
while  he  believed  a  great  wrong  was  calling  for  re- 
dress. They  called  him  an  Abolitionist,  and  pro- 
posed assisting  him  in  his  departure  from  a  place 
which  did  not  seem  to  suit  him  very  well.  They 
would  provide  feathers,  if  not  wings,  and  attach 
them  to  him  with  tar,  as  the  best  artificial  method. 
They  would  not  furnish  him  with  a  horse,  but  they 
found  a  rail,  and  this  with  the  aid  of  their  own  loco- 
motive powers,  would  assist  him  greatly. 

The  Man  felt  as  though  he  would  rather  continue 
free  of  all  such  obligations,  and  on  the  very  night 
when  all  things  were  preparing  for  his  exit,  he  spread 
his  wings  upon  the  darkness  and  flew  away. 

He  had  heard  the  negroes  speak  of  a  land  to  the 
north,  wheie  there  were  no  slaves,  where  oppres- 
sion, cruelty,  and  selfishness  did  not  exist ;  and  he 
thought  that  must  be  the  better  land  of  which  he 
had  so  often  heard.  He  came  to  its  far  famed  city  ; 
that  where  morals,  intelligence,  and  prosperity  are 
more  nearly  connected  than  in  any  other.  He  was 
pleased  at  first,  but  soon  became  dissatisfied,  because 
it  fell  far  short  of  his  ideas  of  social  perfection.    Here 


were  also  Wealth  and  Poverty — here  were  Misery, 
Selfishness,  and  Pride.  He  saw  a  wealthy  lady  roll 
along  in  her  carriage,  while  a  feeble  woman  could 
hardly  totter  across  the  streets.  "  The  carriage 
would  have  held  more  than  two,"  said  he  to  himself. 
He  followed  the  faltering  footsteps  until  he  came  to 
a  cellar.  The  woman  approached  a  bed,  upon 
which  two  children  were  gasping  for  breath, 

"Can  nothing  be  done  for  them?"  asked  the 
Man. 

"I  have  just  called  a  physician,"  replied  the 
mother.  In  a  few  moments  he  came  in.  He  looked 
tenderly  at  his  little  patients.  "  They  are  dying  of 
want,"  said  he.  "They  want  every  thing  they 
should  now  have  ;  but  first  of  all,  is  the  want  of 
fresh  air."  The  Man  started  from  the  house  and 
ran  to  a  street,  in  which  was  the  residence  of  an 
eminent  philanthropist.  His  questionings  had  alrea- 
dy led  him  to  a  knowledge  of  the  good.  He  came 
to  the  house.  The  master  was  not  at  home — he  had 
gone  to  his  country-seat,  and  his  mansion  was  vacant, 
with  the  exception  of  one  servant  who  Avas  left  to 
open  the  windows  each  day,  and  see  the  cool  air 
breathed  through  the  deserted  rooms.  And,  as  he 
looked  at  the  lofty,  well- ventilated  and  vacant  apart- 
ments, he  thought  of  the  children  who  were  dying 
in  a  neighboring  cellar  for  want  of  air. 

The  man  was  wearied,  disappointed  and  vexed. 
"  If  this  is  the  happiest  spot  on  Earth,"  said  he, 
"  then  let  me  go  back  to  the  Moon." 

It  was  a  lovely  starlight  night.  The  moon,  like 
a  silver  crescent,  hung  afar  in  the  blue  ether,  and 
there  was  one  bright  solitary  cloud  in  the  clear  sky. 
The  Man  spread  his  wings,  and,  bidding  farewell  to 
Earth,  he  turned  his  face  upward  to  a  better  home. 
As  he  passed  the  bright  cloud  he  thought  he  saw, 
faintly  delineated  as  though  in  bright  shadow,  the 
outlines  of  a  human  form.  He  approached  nearer, 
and  the  cloud  seemed  like  a  light  couch,  upon  which 
an  etherealized  being  reclined. — Lofty  intellect  and 
childlike  mildness  were  blended  in  his  pale  spiritual 
countenance,  but  there  was  a  glance  of  sorrow  in  his 
deep  eyes  which  told  that,  if  an  angel,  he  had  not 
forgotten  the  trials  of  earth. 

The  Man  said  to  him,  "I  have  just  left  Earth  for 
Moon,  but  I  would  gladly  leave  it  for  any  other 
world.  You  seemed  to  have  returned  to  it  from 
Heaven.'' 

"  It  was  my  home,"  replied  the  spirit.  "  There 
I  first  received  existence ;  there  I  first  drew  the 
breath  of  life.  It  was  my  first  home  ;  and,  though 
I  know  it  is  full  of  sin  and  sorrow,  yet  at  times  I 
leave  Heaven  that  I  may  view  it  once  again." 

"  And  did  you  know,  while  there,  that  it  was 
filled  with  Guilt,  Ignorance,  or  Pain?  or  did  you 
neglect  the  great  interests  of  Humanity  for  selfish 
pleasure  ?" 

"  I  did  nut  live  for  myself  alone.  I  endeavored 
to  live  for  my  kind,  and  to  And  my  happiness  in  try- 


VOICES    OF     THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


55 


ing  to  promote  the  well  being  of  others.  I  see  now 
that  I  might  have  done  more,  but  I  saw  it  not  then. 
God  had  given  me  a  feeble  frame,  and  I  might  not 
go  forth  actively  among  my  brethren.  Eut  I  sent 
my  voice  among  them.  I  spoke  aloud  in  behalf  ol 
the  wronged  and  down-trodden.  I  spoke  not  of  one 
evil,  but  of  that  which  is  the  source  of  all  evil.  I 
spoke  to  the  young,  knowing  that  they  would  soon 
be  the  middle-aged,  to  act,  and  then  the  aged^to  die. 
I  sent  my  voice  among  the  ignorant,  and  invited 
them  to  come  to  the  tree  of  knowledge.  And  my 
bliss  is  now  in  the  assurance  I  have  received,  that 
my  words  will  not  be  forgotten." 

'•'But,  if  you  were  douig  good,"  said  the  Man, 
sternly,  "  Why  did  you  go  thence  ?'' 

"  I  was  called,"  replied  the  spirit,  gently. 

"  And  is  there  any  who  may  take  your  place?" 

"  I  hope  and  believe  there  are  many  noble  spirits, 
who  are  as  earnest,  as  able,  as  faithful  and  more  ac- 
tive, who  are  laboring  for  their  brother  man.  But 
there  is  another  agent.  Would  you  witness  it?  " 
and  drawing  aside  a  drapery  of  cloud,  he  disclosed  a 
shining  volume.  The  night  breeze  gently  wafted  its 
leaves,  and,  in  letters  of  brightness,  were  written 
upon  them  such  words  as  these  : 

"  God  hath  made  of  one  blood  all  the  nations  of 
the  earth."  "Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  thy- 
self." "  The  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire."  "All 
things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to 
you,  do  you  even  so  to  them."  "With  what  mea- 
sure ye  mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again." 

The  Man  glanced  at  them,  and  then  said,  "  Is  this 
book  there  ? ' ' 

"It  is  there,"  replied  the  spirit,  "  and  there  it 
will  remain  until  its  words  are  embroidered  upon 
the  hems  of  their  garments,  engraved  upon  the  bells 
of  their  horses,  and  bound  as  frontlets  between  their 
eyes.  Yea,  even  until  they  are  impressed  upon  the 
hearts  of  all  men." 

The  spirit  veiled  the  bookagain  in  aerial  drapery, 
and  disappeared  himself  in  the  bright  cloud. 

The  Man  turned  away,  with  a  spirit  Jess  sad ;  and 
ere  morning  dawned,  he  looked  down  again  from  his 
"old  accustomed  place,"  with  his  usual  placid 
smile ;  and  none  would  now  know  from  his  benign  ex- 
pression, that  we,  poor  erring  mortals,  had  ever 
grieved  and  angered  the  Man  in  the  Moon. — Lowell 
Offering. 

THE  LADY'S  YES. 

BY    ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BAKEETT. 

"  Yes  !"   I  answered  you  last  night ; 

"  No  '."  this  morning.  Sir,  I  say  ! 
Colors,  seen  by  candle-light, 

Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 

When  the  tabors  played  their  best, 
Lamps  above,  and  laughs  below — 


Love  me  .sounded  like  a  jest, 
Fit  for  Yes  or  fit  for  No  ! 

Call  me  false,  or  call  me  free — 
Vow,  whatever  light  may  shine, 

No  iTjan  on  thy  face  shall  see 
Any  grief  for  change  on  mine. 

Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both — 
Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo — 

Wooer  light  makes  fickle  troth — 
Scorn  of  tut  recoils  on  you  ! 

Learn  to  win  a  lady's  faith 
Nobly,  as  the  thing  is  high  ; 

Bravely,  as  for  life  or  death — 
With  a  loyal  gravity. 

Lead  her  from  the  festive  boards. 
Point  her  to  the  starry  skies. 

Guard  her,  by  your  truthful  words, 
Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 

By  your  truth  she  shall  be  true — 
Ever  true,  as  wives  of  yore-^ 

And  her  Yes,  once  said  to  you, 
Shall  be  Yes  for  evermore." 


HOW  TO  KEEP  LENT. 

BY    KOBERT    HEKEICK. 
(A  paraphrase  of  Isaiah  Iviii.  3—7.) 

Is  this  a  Fast,  to  keep 

The  larder  leane 

And  clean 
From  fat  of  neates  and  sheep  ?- 
Is  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 

To  fill 
The  platter  high  with  fish  ? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  houre. 

Or  ragg'd  to  go, 

Or  show 
A  downcast  look  and  soure  ? 
No  :— 'Tis  a  fast  to  dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat 

And  meat 
Unto  the  hungry  soule. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 

From  old  debate 

And  hate ; 
To  circumcise  thy  life  ; 
To  shew  a  heart  grief  rent ; 

To  starve  thy  sin, 

Not  bin ; 
And  that's  to  keep  thy  Lent  ! 


56 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


CHRISTIAN,  AND  MERE    POETIC  BENEVO- 
LENCE, CONTRASTED. 


BY  THOMAS  CHALMERS. 

(Extracted  from  a  discourRe  before    the   Eding'ourgh  Society 
for  the  relief  of  the  Destitute  Sick". ) 

The  man  who  considers  the  poor,  instead  of  slum- 
bering over   the  emotions    of  a  useless   sensibility 
among  those  imaginary  beings  whom  poetry  and  ro- 
mance have   laid  before  him   in  all  the  elegance  of 
fictitious  history,  will  bestow  the  labour  and  tho  at- 
tention of  actual  business  among  the  poor  of  the  real 
and  the  living  world.     Benevolence  is  the  burden  of 
every  romantic  tale,  and  of  every  poet's  song.     It  is 
dressed  out  in  all  the  fairy  enchantments  of  imagery 
and  eloquence.     All  is  beauty  to  the  eye  and  music 
to  the  ear.     Nothing  seen  but   pictures   of   felicity, 
and  nothing  heard  but  the  soft  whispers  of  gratitude 
and  affection.     The  reader  is  carried   along   by  this 
soft  and  delightful  representation  of  virtue.     He  ac- 
companies his  hero  through  all  the  fancied  varieties 
of  his  history.     He  goes  along  with  him  to  the  cot- 
tage of  poverty  and  disease,  surrounded,  as  we  may 
suppose,  with  all  the  charms  of  rural  obscurity,  and 
where  the  murmuringsof  an  adjoining  rivulet  accord 
with  the  finer  and  more   benevolent   sensibilities  of 
the  mind.     He  enters   this  enchanting    retirement, 
and  meets  with  a  picture  of  distress,   adorned  in  all 
the  elegance  of  fiction.     Perhaps   a   father  laid  on  a 
bed  of  languishing,  and  supported  by  the  labors   of 
an  affectionate  family,  where  kindness  breathes  in 
every  word,  and  anxiety  sits  upon  every  countenance 
— where   the   industry  of  his  children  struggles  in 
vain  to  supply  the  cordials  which  his  poverty  denies 
him — where  nature  sinks  every  hour,  and  all  feel  a 
gloomy  foreboding,  which   they  strive   to    conceal, 
and  tremble  to  express.     The  hero  of  the  romance 
enters,  and  the  glance  of  his  benevolent  eye  enlight- 
ens the  darkest  recesses  of  misery.     He  turns  to  the 
bed  of  languishing,  tells  the  sick    man  that  there  is 
still  hope,  and  smiles  comfort  on  his  despairing  chil- 
dren.    Day  after  day  he  repeats  his  kindness  and  his 
charity.     'J'hei'  hail  his  approach  as   the   footsteps 
of  an  angel  of  mercy.     The   father   lives   to    bless 
his  deliverer.     The  family  rewards  his  benevolence 
by  the  homage   of  an  affectionate   gratitude ;  and, 
in  the  piety  of  their  evening  prayer,  offer  up  thanks 
to  the  God  of  Heaven,  for  opening  the  hearts  of  the 
rich  to  kindly  and  beneficient  attentions.     The  rea- 
der weeps  with  delight.     The    visions   of  paradise 
play  before  his  fancy.     His  tears  flow,  and  his  heart 
dissolves  in  all  the  luxury  of  tenderness. 

Now,  we  do  not  deny  that  the  members  of  the 
Destitute  Sick  Society  may  at  times  have  met  with 
some  such  delightful  scene  to  soothe  and  encourage 
them.  But  put  the  question  to  any  of  their  visitors, 
and  he  will  not  fail  to  tell  you,  that  if  they  had  ne- 
ver moved  but  when  they  had  something  like  this  to 
excite  and  gratify  their  hearts,    they  would   seldom 


have  moved  at  all ;  and  their  usefulness  to  the  poor 
would  have  been  reduced  to  a  very  humble  fraction 
of  what  they  have  actually  done  for  them.  What 
is  this  but  to  say,  that  it  is  the  business  of  a  reli- 
gious instructor  to  give  you,  not  the  elegant,  but 
the  true  representation  of  benevolence — to  represent 
it  not  so  much  as  a  luxurious  indulgence  to  the  finer 
sensibilities  of  the  mind,  but  according  to  the  sober 
declaration  of  Scripture,  as  a  work  and  as  a  labor — 
as  a  business  in  which  you  must  encounter  vexation 
opposition,  and  fatigue  ;  where  you  are  not  always 
to  meet  with  that  elegance  which  allures  the  fancy, 
or  with  that  humble  and  retired  adversity,  which 
interests  the  more  tender  propensities  of  the  heart; 
but  as  a  business  where  reluctance  must  often  be 
overcome  by  a  sense  of  duty,  and  where,  though 
oppressed  at  every  step,  by  envy,  disgust,  and  dis- 
appointment, you  are  bound  to  persevere,  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  law  of  God,  and  the  sober  instigation  of 
principle. 

The    benevolence  of  the  gospel   lies   in   actions. 
The  benevolence  of  our  fiction  writers,  in  a  kind  of 
high- wrought   delicacy   of  feeling    and    sentiment. 
The  one  dissipates  all  its  fervor  in   sighs  and  tears, 
and  idle  aspirations — the  other  reserves  its  strength 
for  efforts  and  execution.     The  one   regards  it  as  a 
luxurious  enjoyment  of  the  heart — the    other,    as    a 
work  and  business  of  the  hand.     The  one  sits  in  in- 
dolence, and  broods  in   visionary  rapture,    over   its 
schemes   of    ideal   philanthropy — the    other    steps 
abroad,  and  enlightens  by  its  presence,  the  dark  and 
pestilential  hovels  of  disease.     The  one  wastes  away 
in  empty  ejaculation — the  other  gives  time  and  trou- 
ble to  the  work  of  beneficence — gives   education  to 
tho  orphan — provides  clothes  to  the  naked,  and  lays 
food  on  the  table  of  the  hungry.     The  one   is  indo- 
lent and  capricious,  and  often   does  mischief  by  the 
occasional  overflowings  of  a   whimsical   and  ill-di- 
rected charity — the  other  is  vigilant  and  discerning, 
an']  takes  care  lest  his  distributions  be  injudicious, 
and  the  effort  of  benevolence   be   misapplied.     The 
one  is  soothed  with  the  luxury  of  feeling,    and   re- 
clines with  easy  and  indolent  satisfaction — the  other 
shakes  off  the   deceitful    languor   of  contemplation 
and  solitude,  and  delights   in   a   scene   of  activity. 
Remember,  that  virtue,   in  general,   is  not  to  feel, 
but  to  do — not  merely  to  conceive  a  purpose,  but  to 
carry  that  purpose  into   execution— not   merely   to 
be  overpowered  by  the  impression    of  a  sentiment, 
but  to  practise  what  it  loves,  and  to  imitate  what  it 
admires. 

To  be  benevolent  in  speculation,  is  often  to  be 
selfish  in  action  and  in  reality.  The  vanity  and  the 
indolence  of  man  delude  him  into  a  thousand  incon. 
sistencies.  He  professes  to  love  the  name  and  the 
semblance  of  virtue,  but  the  labor  of  exertion  and 
of  self-denial  terrifies  him  from  attempting  it.  The 
emotions  of  kindness  are  delightful   to   his   bosom 


VOICES  OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


57 


hut  then  they  are  little  hotter  than  a  selfish  iiuhil- 
gence — they  terminate  in  his  own  enjoyment — they 
are  a  mere  refinement  of  luxury.  His  eye  melts 
over  the  picture  of  fictitious  distress,  while  not  a 
tear  is  left  for  the  actual  starvation  and  misery  with 
which  he  is  surroimded.  It  is  easy  to  indulge  the 
imaginations  of  a  visionary  heart  in  going  over  a 
scene  of  fancied  affliction,  because  here  there  is  no 
sloth  to  overcome — no  avaricious  propensity  to  con- 
trol— no  oflfensive  or  disgusting  circumstance  to  al- 
lay the  immingled  impression  of  sympathy  which  a 
soft  and  elegant  picture  is  calculated  to  awaken.  It 
is  not  so  easy  to  be  benevolent  in  action  and  in  re- 
ality, because  here  there  is  fatigue  to  undergo — there 
is  time  and  money  to  give — there  is  the  mortifying 
spectacle  of  vice,  and  folly,  and  ingratitude,  to  en- 
counter. We  like  to  give  you  the  fair  picture  of 
love  to  man,  because  to  throw  over  it  false  and  fic- 
titious embellishments,  is  injurious  to  its  cause. — 
These  elevate  the  fancy  by  romantic  visions  which 
can  never  be  realized.  They  embitter  the  heart  by 
the  most  severe  and  mortifying  disappointments,  and 
often  force  us  to  retire  in  disgust  from  what  heaven 
has  intended  to  be  the  theatre  of  our  discipline  and 
preparation.  Take  the  representation  of  the  Bible. 
Benevolence  is  a  work  and  a  labor.  It  often  calls 
for  the  severest  efforts  of  vigilance  and  industry — 
a  habit  of  action  not  to  be  acquired  in  the  school 
of  fine  sentiment,  but  in  the  walks  of  business,  in 
the  dark  and  dismal  receptacles  of  misery — in  the 
hospitals  of  disease — in  the  putrid  lanes  of  great 
cities,  where  poverty  dwells  in  lank  and  ragged 
wretchedness,  agonizing  with  pain,  faint  with  hun- 
ger, and  shivering  in  a  frail  and  unsheltered  tene- 
ment. 

You  are  not  to  conceive  yourself  a  real  lover  of 
your  species,  and  entitled  to  the  praise  or  the  re- 
ward of  benevolence  becavise  you  weep  over  a  fic- 
titious representation  of  human  misery.  A  man  may 
weep  in  the  indolence  of  a  studious  and  contempla- 
tive retirement;  he  may  breathe  all  the  tender  aspi- 
rations of  humanity ;  but  what  avails  all  this  warm 
and  effusive  benevolence,  if  it  is  never  exerted — if  it 
never  rise  to  execution — ^if  it  never  carry  him  to  the 
accomplishment  of  a  single  benevolent  purpose — ii 
it  shrinks  at  activity,  and  sicken  at  the  pain  of  fa- 
tigue ?  It  is  easy,  indeed,  to  come  forward  with  the 
cant  and  hypocrisy  of  fine  sentiment — to  have  a 
heart  trained  to  the  emotions  of  benevolence,  while 
the  hand  refuses  the  labor  of  discharging  its  oflices 
— to  weep  for  amusement,  and  to  have  nothing  to 
spare  for  human  suffering  but  the  tribute  of  an  in- 
dolent and  unmeaning  sympathy.  Many  of  you  must 
be  acquainted  with  that  corruption  of  Christian  doc- 
trine which  has  been  termed  Antinomianism.  It 
professes  the  highest  reverence  for  the  Supreme  Be- 
ing, while  it  refuses  obedience  to  the  lessons  of  his 
authority.  It  professes  the  highest  gratitude  for  the 
sufferings  of  Christ,  while   it  refuses  that  course  of 


life  and  action  which  he  demands  of  his  followers. 
It  professes  to  adore  the  tremendous  Majesty  of 
heaven,  and  to  weep  in  shame  and  in  sorrow  over  the 
sinfulness  of  degraded  humanity,  w^liile  every  day  it 
insults  heaven  by  the  enormity  of  its  misdeeds,  and 
evinces  the  insincerity  of  its  wilful  perscverane  in 
the  practice  of  iniquity.  Tliis  Antinomianism  is  ge- 
nerally condemned;  and  none  reprobate  it  more 
than  the  votaries  of  fine  sentiment — your  men  of  taste 
and  elegant  literature — your  epicures  of  feeling,  who 
riot  in  all  the  luxury  of  theatrical  emotion,  and  who, 
in  their  admiration  of  what  is  tender,  and  beautiful, 
and  cultivated,  have  always  turned  with  disgust  from 
the  doctrines  of  a  sour  and  illiberal  theology.  We 
may  say  to  such,  as  Nathan  to  David,  "  Thou  art  the 
man."  Theirs  is  to  all  intents  and  purposes  Antino- 
mianism— and  an  Antinomianism  of  a  far  more  dan- 
gerous and  deceitful  kind,  than  the  Antinomianism 
of  a  spurious  and  pretended  orthodoxy.  In  the  An- 
tinomianism of  religion,  there  is  nothing  to  fascinate 
or  deceive  you.  It  wears  an  air  of  repulsive  bigotry, 
more  fitted  to  awaken  disgust,  than  to  gain  the  ad- 
miration of  proselytes.  There  is  a  glaring  deformity 
in  its  aspect,  which  alarms  you  at  the  very  outset, 
and  is  an  outrage  to  that  natural  morality  which,  dark 
and  corrupted  as  it  is,  is  still  strong  enough  to  lift  its 
loud  remonstrance  against  it.  But  in  the  Antino- 
mianism of  high-wrought  sentiment,  there  is  a  de- 
ception far  more  insiimating.  It  steals  upon  you 
under  the  semblance  of  virtue.  It  is  supported  by 
the  delusive  colouring  of  imagination  and  poetry. 
It  has  all  the  graces  and  embellishments  of  literature 
to  recommend  it.  Vanity  is  soothed,  and  conscience 
lulls  itself  to  repose  in  this  dream  of  feeling  and  of 
indolence. 

Let  us  dismiss  these  lying  vanities,  and  regulate 
our  lives  by  the  truth  and  soberness  of  the  New 
Testament.  Benevolence  is  not  in  word  and  in 
tons;ue,  but  in  deed  and  in  truth.  It  is  a  business 
with  men  as  they  are,  and  with  human  life  as  drawn 
by  the  rough  hand  of  experience.  It  is  a  duty  which 
you  must  perform  at  the  call  of  principle,  though 
there  be  no  voice  of  eloquence  to  give  splendonr  to 
your  exertions,  and  no  music  or  poetry  to  lead  your 
willing  footsteps  through  the  bowers  of  enchant- 
ment. It  is  not  the  impulse  of  high  and  ecstatic 
emotion.  It  is  an  exertion  of  principle.  You  must 
go  to  the  poor  man's  cottage,  though  no  verdure 
flourish  around  it,  and  no  rivulet  be  nigh  to  delight 
you  by  the  gentleness  of  its  murmurs.  If  you  look 
for  the  romantic  simplicity  of  fiction,  you  wdll  be 
disappointed  ;  but  it  is  your  duty  to  persevere,  in 
spite  of  every  discouragement.  Benevolence  is  not 
merely  a  feeling,  but  a  principle — not  a  dream  of 
ripture  for  the  fancy  to  indulge  in,  but  a  business 
for  the  hand  to  execute. 

It  must  now  be  obvious  to  all  of  you,  that  it  is  not 
enough  that  you  give  money,  and  add  your  name  to 
the  contributors  of  charity — you  must  give  it  with 
8 


58 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


judgment.  You  must  give  your  time  and  your  at- 
tention. You  must  descend  to  the  trouble  of  exa- 
mination. You  must  rise  from  the  repose  of  con- 
templation, and  make  yourself  acquainted  with  the 
objects  of  your  benevolent  exercises.  Will  he  hus- 
band your  charity  with  care,  or  will  he  squander  it 
away  in  idleness  and  dissipation?  Will  he  satisfy 
himself  with  the  brutal  luxury  of  the  moment,  and 
neglect  the  supply  of  his  more  substantial  necessi- 
ties, or  suffer  his  children  to  be  trained  in  ignorance 
and  depravity  ?  Will  charity  corrupt  him  by  lazi- 
ness ?  What  is  his  peculiar  necessity  ?  Is  it  the  want 
of  health  or  the  want  of  employment?  Is  it  the  pres- 
sure of  a  numerous  family?  Does  he  need  medicine 
to  administer  to  the  diseases  of  his  children?  Does 
he  need  fuel  or  raiment  to  protect  them  from  the  in- 
clemency of  winter  ?  Does  he  need  money  to  satisfy 
the  yearly  demands  of  his  landlord,  or  to  purchase 
books  and  to  pay  for  the  education  of  his  offspring  ? 
To  give  money  is  not  to  do  all  the  work  and  la- 
bour of  benevolence.  You  must  go  to  the  poor 
man's  bed.  You  must  lend  your  hand  to  the  work 
of  assistance.  You  must  examine  his  accounts.  You 
must  try  to  recover  those  debts  which  are  due  to  his 
family.  You  must  try  to  recover  those  wages  which 
are  detained  by  the  injuries  or  the  rapacity  of  his 
master.  You  must  employ  your  mediation  with  his 
superiors.  You  must  represent  to  them  the  necessi- 
ties of  his  situation.  You  must  solicit  their  assist- 
ance, and  awaken  their  feelings  to  the  tale  of  his 
calamity.  This  is  benevolence  in  its  plain,  and 
sober,  and  substantial  reality,  though  eloquence 
may  have  withheld  its  imagery,  and  poetry  may 
have  denied  its  graces  and  its  embellishments.  This 
is  true  and  unsophisticated  goodness.  It  may  be  re- 
corded in  no  earthly  documents  ;  but  if  done  under 
the  influence  of  Christian  principle — in  a  word, 
done  unto  Jesus,  it  is  written  in  the  book  of  heaven, 
and  will  give  a  new  lustre  to  that  crown  to  which  his 
disciples  look  forward  in  time,  and  will  wear  through 
eternity. 

RECOMPENSE. 

BY    VV.    G.    SIMS. 

Not  profitless  the  game,  even  though  we  lose ; 

Nor  wanting  in  reward  the  thankless  toil  : 
The  wild  adventure  that  the  man  pursues 

Requites  him,  though  he  gathers  not  the  spoil : 
Strength  follows  labour,  and  its  exercise 

Brings  Independence — fearlessness  of  ill — 
Courage  and  pride— all  attributes  we  prize  — 

Though  their  fruits  fail,  not  the  less  valued  still. 
Though  fame  withholds  the  trophy  of  desire, 

And  men  deny,  and  the  impatient  throng 
Grows  heedless,  and  the  strains,  protracted,  tire — 

Not  wholy  vain  the  minstrel  and  the  song, 
If,  striving  to  arouse  one  heavenly  tone 
In  others'  hearts,  it  wakens  up  his  own. 


POEMS  BY  CHRISTOPHER  PE/VRSE  CRANCH. 

THE  SOUL-FLOWER. 

I  dreamed  of  a  Flower  that  bloomed  in  the  ocean. 

Far  down — all  alone, 
So  deep,  there  was  not  a  sound  or  motion. 
Nor  a  sea-beast's  ear  to  catch  the  groan 
Of  the  upper  sea  in  its  strife. 
The  green  waves  were   noiseless  and  harmless  as 

sleep. 
And  a  dim  light  struggled  to  pierce  the  deep, 
But  all  was  cold  and  shadowless. 
And  all  was  void  and  motionless. 
For  here  there  was  no  life, 
Saving  of  this  one  flower. 
O  'twas  a  starlike  thing, 
A  vision  of  calm,  undying  power  ; 
Bell-like  and  deep,  like  an  urn  of  pearl, 

With  anthers  all  golden  and  glittering. 
And  slowly  its  petals  of  white  did  unfurl ; 

A  marble  flower,  yet  living  and  growing ; 
Sweet  and  pure  as  a  seraph's  dream. 
0  dim  are  the  diamond  and  ruby's  gleam,  ^ 

And  the  myriad  gems  that  are  glowing, 
When  I  think  on  the  light  of  this  lonely  flower, 
Far  down  in  its  silent  and  dim  sea-bower. 
The  storms  of  the  upper  waves  raged  on. 

But  here  was  no  tempest  or  noise  to  dread  ; 
Huge  wrecks  and  bodies  of  men  came  down, 

But  they  hung  drifting  far  over  head, 
They  sank  not  down  to  the  sacred  bower 
Where  bloomed  the  peaceful  ocean-flower. 
The  sea-snake  and  whale  in  their  giant  race, 
Were  lost  when  they  sought  for  this  lonely 
place. 
And  all  the  bright-colored  things  that  gleam 
And  dart  through  the  deep,  were  like  meteors 

that  stream 
Through  a  summer  sky ;   while  the  sea-stars 

shone. 
Some  in  clusters,  and  some  alone. 

Whose  far  off  twinklings  feebly  sent 
A  light  through  the  vast  dim  element. 

And  I  know  whenever  this  dream  comes  back, 
That  there  is  a  flower  like  this,  on  earth; 
It  hath  not  here  its  place  of  birth. 

And  seldom  may  we  track 

The  path  that  leads  to  the  inner  shrine 
Where  its  glories  spread  and  shine. 

Yet  ye  need  not  roam  from  star  to  star ; 

Ye  need  not  seek  this  flower  afar  ; 

It  blooms  deep  down  in  the  human  heart ; 

It  hath  no  peer  in  the  pride  of  art, 

It  blooms  in  the  breast  of  the  wise  and  pure, 
But  withers  a  sinful  heart  within. 

For  its  amaranth  beauty  cannot  endure 
The  blighting  atmosphere  of  sin. 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


59 


O  holy  and  beautiful  Spirit-Flower  ! 
Thou  art  no  dream  of  an  idle  hour  ! 
Immortal  as  the  Primal  Beam- 
Too  true,  too  lovely  for  a  dream. 

Wouldst  thou  know  what  this  beauty  is  ? 
Wouldst  thou  give  all  to  have  but  this  ? 
Wouldst  thou  know  how  and  for  what  to  live  ? 
Wouldst  thou  garner  what  worlds  cannot  give  ? 
Then  guard  thine  own  heart :  in  its  fathomless  deeps 
The  swelling  bud  of  that  flower  sleeps. 

Watch,  lest  it  sleep  till  it  wither  away ! 
Watch,  till  it  opens  and  blooms  to  the  day ! 


TO  A  HUMMING  BIRD. 

Tell  us,  tell  us  whence  thou  comest. 
Little  thing  of  the  rainbow  wing ; 

Tell  us  if  thou  always  hummest : 
If  thou  canst  not  sing. 

Tell  us  when  thou  fell'st  in  love 
With  the  honey-suckle  flower, 

That  thou  coraest  every  eve 
To  her  fragrant  bower. 

Or  art  thou  her  guardian  sprite, 

Ever  hearkening  to  her  sigh, 
And  robed  so  bright  with  colored  light, 

Droppest  from  the  sky  ? 

Take  me  to  thy  hidden  nest 

In  the  far  off  realm  of  Faery, 
Where  thou  sinkest  to  thy  rest 

When  thy  wings  are  weary. 

When  a  boy  I  often  dreamed, 

Wondering  what  thou  wast  and  whence. 
For  thy  quivering  winglets  seemed 

Scarce  like  things  of  sense. 

Darting  here  and  darting  there, 

Now  half-buried  in  a  flower. 
Now  away,  and  none  knew  where, 

By  some  mysterious  power. 

When  the  rosy  twilight  came 
Softly  down  the  slumbering  sky. 

Thy  emerald  wing  and  throat  of  flame 
Flashed  before  my  eye. 

Round  the  lattice  and  the  porch, 

Ere  the  dew  began  to  fall. 
Kissing  all  the  bashful  buds 

Clambering  up  the  wall. 

But  like  a  suspected  lover, 

Darting  off  into  the  sky. 
Ere  we  could  with  truth  discover 

Half  thy  brilliancy. 


I'll  not  blame  thee,  little  thing. 
That  thou  was  then  a  mystery. 

When  life  and  thought  were  in  their  spring, 
And  fancy  wandered  free. 

For  I  was  like  thee,  gentle  bird. 

As  wild  and  gay,  as  strange  and  shy. 

And  all  my  hours  were  with  the  flowers, 
Beneath  a  summer  sky. 

But  now  that  I've  become  a  man, 
I'd  have  thee  come  and  tell  to  me. 

If  the  boyish  dreams  are  true 
I  have  had  of  thee. 

Tell  me  why  and  whence  thou  coraest, 

On  thy  little  rainbow  wing ; 
Why  unto  the  flower  thou  hummest, 

And  dost  never  sing. 

But  I  hear  a  sober  spirit 

Talking  as  unto  a  child ; 
I  must  leave  my  bird  and  listen 

To  its  accents  mild. 

Question  not  all  things  thou  seest ; 

Things  there  are  thou  canst  not  know. 
Learn  from  thy  own  dreams  of  childhood 

Not  too  far  to  go. 

Thou  canst  seldom  track  the  spirit, 

Whence  or  how  or  why  it  is ; 
In  its  unseen  deeps  for  ever 

Are  there  mysteries. 

Be  content  to  see— and  seeing. 
On  the  threshold  pause  and  bow 

To  the  great  all-loving  Being 
With  an  humble  brow ! 


SILENCE  AND  SPEECH. 

A  little  pleasant  bubbling  up 

From  the  unfathomable  ocean ; 
A  little  glimmering  from  the  unmeasured  sun  ; 
A  little  noise,  a  little  motion — 
Such  is  human  speech ; 
I  to  thee  would  teach 
A  truth  diviner,  deeper 

Than  this  empty  strife ; 
For  thou  art  the  keeper 
Of  the  wells  of  life. 

Godlike  Silence  !  I  would  woo  thee— 

Leave  behind  this  thoughtless  clamour  ; 
Journey  upward,  upward  to  thee, 

Put  on  thy  celestial  armor. 
Let  us  speak  no  more. 

Let  us  be  Divinities  ; 
Let  poor  mortals  prate  and  roar  ; 

Know  we  not  how  small  it  is 


60 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


To  be  ever  uttering, 

Babbling  and  muttering  ? 
Thou  canst  never  tell  the  whole 

Of  thine  unmanageable  Soul. 
Deeper  than  thy  deepest  speech. 

Wiser  than  thy  wisest  thought, 
Something  lies  thou  canst  not  reach, 

Never  to  the  surface  brought. 

Masses  without  form  or  make. 

Sleeping  gnomes  that  never  wake; 

Genii  bound  by  magic  spells ; 

Fairies  and  all  miracles  ; 

Shapes  unclassed  and  wonderful. 

Huge  and  dire  and  beautiful ; 

Dreams  and  hopes  and  prophecies 

Struggling  to  ope  their  eyes ; 

All  that  is  most  vast  and  dim, 

AH  that  is  most  good  and  bad, 

Demon,  sprite  and  cherubim, 

Spectral  troops  and  angels  glad  ; 

Things  that  stir  not,  yet  are  living, 

Up  to  the  light  for  ever  striving  ; 

Thoughts  whose  faces  are  averted, 

Guesses  dwelling  in  the  dark; 

Instincts  not  to  be  diverted 

From  their  ever-present  mark — 

Such  thy  inner  Life,  0  Man, 

Which  no  outward  eye  may  scan. 

Wonderful,  most  wonderful, 

Terrible  and  beautiful ! 

Speak  not,  argue  not — but  live  ! 

Reins  to  thy  true  nature  give, 

And  in  each  unconscious  act 

Forth  will  shine  the  hidden  fact. 

Yet  this  smooth  surface  thou  must  break  ; 

Thou  must  give  as  well  as  take. 

Why  this  Silence  long  and  deep  ? 
Dost  thou  wake  or  dost  thou  sleep  ? 
Up  and  speak — persuade  and  teach ! 
WTiat  so  beautiful  as  Speech  ? 

Sing  us  the  old  Song, 

Be  our  warbling  bird; 
Thou  hast  sealed  thy  lips  too  long 
And  the  world  must  all  go  wrong, 

If  it  hath  no  spoken  word. 

Out  with  it — thou  hast  it '. 

We  would  feel  it,  taste  it. 

Be  our  Delpliic  Oracle, 

Let  the  Memnon  statue  sing. 

Let  the  music  rise  and  swell ; 
We  will  enter  the  ring 
Where  the  silent  ones  dwell, 
And  we  will  compel 
The  Powers  that  we  seek 

Through  us  to  sing,  through  us  to  speak. 
And  hark  !    Apollo's  lyre  ! 
Young  Mercury  with  woiJs  of  fire 


And  Jove — the  serene  air,  hath  thundered, 
As  when  by  old  Prometheus, 
The  lightening  stolen  for  our  use 
From  out  his  sky  was  plundered  I 
Man  to  his  Son,  draws  near, 
And  Silence  now  hath  all  to  fear  ; 

Her  realm  is  invaded. 

Her  temples  degraded — 
For  Eloquence  like  a  strong  and  turbid  river 
Is  flowing  through  her  cities.     On  for  over 
The  mighty  waves  are  dashing,  and  the  sound 
Disturbs  the  Deities  profound. 

God  through  man  is  speaking, 

And  hearts  and  souls  are  waking. 
Each  to  each  his  visions  tells, 
And  all  rings  out  like  a  chime  of  bells  ; 
The  Woed,  the  word,  thou  hast  it  now  ! 

Silence  befits  the  gods  above, 
But  Speech  is  the  star  on  manhood's  brow, 
The  sign  of  truth — the  sign  of  love. 


02i  HEARING  TRIUiMPHANT  MUSIC 

That  joyous  strain 

Wake,  wake  again  ! 
O'er  the  dead  stillness  of  my  soul  it  lingers. 

Rinj;  out,  ring  out 

The  music-shout  I 
I  hear  the  sounding  of  thy  flying  fingers, 

And  to  my  soul  the  harmony. 

Comes  like  a  freshening  sea. 

Again,  again ! 

Farewell,  dull  pain,  [quiver  ! 

Thou   heartache,  rise  not  while  those  harpstrings 

Sad  feelings,  hence ! 

I  feel  a  sense 
Of  a  new  life  come  like  a  rushing  river. 

Freshing  the  fountains  parched  and  dry, 

That  in  my  spirit  lie. 

That  glorious  strain  ! 

O,  from  my  brain 
I  see  the  shadows  flitting  like  scared  ghosts  I 

A  light,  a  light 

Shines  in  to-night. 
O'er  the  good  angels  trooping  to  their  posts, — 

And  the  black  cloud  is  rent  in  twain 

Before  the  ascending  strain. 

It  dies  away,— 

It  would  not  stay, — 
So  sweet,  so  fleeting  ;  yet  to  me  it  spake 

Strange  peace  of  mind 

I  could  not  find, 
Before  that  lofty  strain  the  silence  brake. 

So  let  it  ever  come  to  me 

With  an  undying  harmony. 


VOICES     OF     THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


FIELD  NOTES. 

Where  is  he  tliat  loves  the  woods, 

At  home  in  all  green  solitudes  ; 

He  whom  fashion,  fame,  or  pelf 

Have  not  prisoned  in  himself. 

He  who  leaveth  friend  and  book, 

And  findeth  both  beside  a  brook  ; 

Heareth  wisdom  musical 

In  a  low-toned  waterfall. 

Or  the  pine  grove's  breezy  rush, 

Or  the  trilling  of  a  thrush. 

Or,  when  nights  are  dark  and  still, 

In  a  plaintive  whip-poor-will; 

Or  when  morning  suns  are  bright, 

Seeth  truths  of  quiet  light 

In  the  landscape  green  and  warm 

Of  the  sloping  upland  farm  ! 

Let  him  come  and  be  my  friend 

Till  these  summer  months  shall  end. 

In  this  leafy  sylvan  scene, 

Where  nature  loves  no  hue  but  green, 

Nor  will  let  a  sound  be  heard 

But  of  humble-bee  or  bird. 

Or  a  tall  and  spreading  tree 

Rustling  still  and  lonesomely, 

Or  afar  the  cattle's  bell, 

Tinkling  in  some  hidden  dell, 

We  will  leave  house,  man,  and  street, 

For  companionship  more  sweet : 

Children  of  the  summer  air,    ~ 

We  will  be  as  once  we  were, — 

Two  unconscious  idle  boys, 

And  renew  Arcadian  joys  ; 

Stumbling  in  our  hill-side  walks 

O'er  mushrooms  and  mullein  stalks  ; 

Brushing  with  our  feet  away 

Spider-webs  of  silken  gray, 

Gemmed  with  dew  athwart  the  meadows, 

That  sleep  in  the  long  morning  shadows; 

Roaming  by  some  grassy  stream. 

Where,  as  in  some  earlier  dream. 

Well-known  flowers  all  tall  and  rank 

Blossom  on  the  marshy  bank  ; 

Vines  that  creep,  and  spikes  that  nod, 

Golden-helmet,  golden-rod, 

Orchis,  milk-weed,  elder-bloom, 

Brake,  sweet-fern  and  meadow. broom. 

Star-shaped  mosses  on  the  rocks, 

Golden-butter  cups  in  flocks. 

Tossing  as  the  breeze  sweeps  by 

To  the  blue  deeps  of  the  sky  ; 

All  those  scentless  seedy  flowers 

That  chronicle  the  summer  hours ; 

These  shall  be  our  company. 

The  soliloquizing  bee 

Hath  no  need  of  such  as  we  : 

We  will  let  him  wander  free  ; 

He  must  labor  hotly  yet, 

Ere  the  summer  sun  shall  set. 


iimW>-^' 


Grumbling  little  merchant 

Deft  Utilitarian, 

Dunning  all  the  idle  flowers, 

Short  to  him  must  bo  the  hours. 

As  he  steereth  swiftly  over 

Fields  of  warm  sweet-scented  clover. 

Leave  him  to  his  own  delight, 

Little  insect  Benthamite  : 

Idler  like  ourselves  alone 

Shall  we  woo  to  be  our  crone. 

But  for  him  whose  cloudy  looks 

Are  bent  on  law  or  ledger-books, 

Prisoned  among  the  heated  bricks, 

The  slave  of  traffic,  toil  and  tricks; 

For  him  who  worshippeth  alone 

Beneath  the  drowsy  preacher's  drone. 

Where  creed  and  text  like  fetters  cling 

Upon  the  spirit's  struggling  wing  ; 

For  him  whom  Fashion's  laws  have  tamed, 

Till  the  sweet  heavens  are  nigh  ashamed 

To  lead  him  from  his  poisoned  food 

Into  their  healthy  solitude  ; 

Such  as  these  we  leave  behind. 

Blind  companions  of  the  blind. 

Little  know  they  of  the  balm. 

And  the  beauty,  wise  and  calm. 

Treasured  up  at  Nature's  breast. 

For  the  sick  heart  that  needeth  rest. 

He  who  in  childlike  love  hath  quafl^ed 

Of  her  sweet  mother-milk  one  draught 

Hath  drank  immortal  drops  as  bright 

As  those  which  (tales  of  eld  recite) 

Untasted  fell  one  starry  night 

From  the  fair  bosom  of  heaven's  queen 

Sprinkling  the  sky  with  milky  sheen  : 

From  the  world's  tasteless  springs  he  turns ; 

His  soul  with  thirst  diviner  burns, 

And  nursed  upon  the  lap  of  Truth, 

Wins  once  again  the  gilt  of  youth. 

Him  we  will  seek,  and  none  but  him. 

Whose  inward  sense  hath  not  grown  dim; 

Whose  soul  is  steeped  in  Nature's  tinct, 

And  to  the  Universal  linked  ; 

Who  loves  the  beauteous  Infinite 

With  deep  and  ever  new  delight. 

And  carrieth  where'er  he  goes, 

The  inborn  sweetness  of  the  rose. 

The  perfume  as  of  Paradise  ; 

The  talisman  above  all  price : 

The  optic  glass  that  wins  from  far 

The  meaning  of  the  utmost  star  ; 

The  key  that  opes  the  golden  doors 

Where  earth  and  heaven  have  piled  their  stores  ; 

The  magic  ring — the  enchanter's  wand — 

The  title-deed  to  Wonder-land  ; 

The  wisdom  that  o'erlooketh  sense, 

The  clairvoyance  of  Innocence. 

These  rich  possessions  if  he  own, 
He  shall  be  ours,  and  he  alone. 


62 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


THE  POET. 

Non  est  ad  aetra  mollis  fe  terria  via. — Seneca. 

He  that  would  earn  the  Poet's  sacred  name, 
Must  write  for  future  as  for  present  ages ; 
Must  learn  to  scorn  the  wreath  of  vulgar  fame, 
And  bear  to  see  cold  critics  o'er  the  pages 
His  burning  brain  hath  wrought,  wreak  wantonly 
Their  dull  and  crabbed  spite,  or  trifling  mockery. 

He  must  not  fret  his  heart  that  men  will  turn 

From  the  deep  wealth  his  soul  hath  freely  given  ; 
He  must  not  marvel  that  their  spirits  burn 

With  fire  so  dim  and  cold.     The  God  of  Heaven 
Who  hung  the  golden  stars  in  loftiest  sky. 
Hath  o'er  all  spirits  set  the  Poet's  heart  on  high. 

Star-like  and  high,  his  task  and  glorious  sphere 
Is  to  shine  on  in  love  and  light  unborrowed. 
Yet  looking  down,  to  hold  all  nature  dear, 

And  where  a  heart  hath  deeply  joyed  or  sorrowed , 
To  gather  to  itself  all  images 

Of  mind,   and  heart  and  passion,  and  to  breathe  life 
through  these  : 

And  in  this  life,  burning  through  all  his  words, 
And  glancing  back  so  strangely  on  man's  soul 
The  image  of  himself,  the  bard  records 

The  power  which  lifts  all  nature,  till  the  whole 
Swims  in  the  spirit  of  beauty,  and  the  breath 
Of  earthly  things  is  murmuring  life  untouched  by 
death. 

Thus  hovering,  bee-winged,  over  every  flower, 
And  gathering  all  the  nectar  from  its  blossom, 
And  e'en  midst  broken  hearts,  in  griefs  dark  hour. 
Stealing  a  sweetness  from  the  poison  bosom. 
He  garners  up  the  honey  of  his  thought, 
And  yields  unto  the  world  whafer  his   soul    hath 
wrought. 

His  is  the  task  to  clothe  the  dull  and  common 

In  the  rich  garb  of  ever-living  youth ; 
And  o'er  the  soul  of  child,  or  man,  or  woman, 
And  o'er  the  countenance  of  daily  truth. 
And  o'er  Creation's  face  to  spread  the  light 
Of  beauty,  as  it  shines  in  God's  eternal  sight. 

He  may  not  stoop  to  pander  to  the  herd 
Of  fickle  tastes  and  morbid  appetites  ; 
He  hath  upon  his  lips  a  holy  word. 

And  he  must  heed  not  if  it  cheers  or  blights, 
So  it  be  Truth,  and  the  deep  earnest  fire 
Of  no  dull  earthward  thought,  nor  any  base  desire, 

His  path  is  through  all  nature  like  the  sun  ; 

From  world  to  world,  like  a  recording  spirit; 
And  with  all  shapes  and  hues  his  heart  is  one  ; 
And  if  a  bird  but  sing,  his  ear  must  hear  it. 
And  the  coarse,  scentless  flower  is  as  a  brother. 
And  the  green  turf  the  gentle  bosom  of  a  mother. 


And  these  he  loves ; — and  with  all  these  the  heart 
Of  frail  humanity,  which  like  a  tremulous  harp 
Huns  in  the  winds,  not  oft  from  storms  apart. 
Sobs  or  rejoices ;   and  when  tempests  sharp 
Sweep  the  tense  strings,  a  "  sweet  sad  music"  hears, 
Where  others  list  no  voice,  nor  heed  the  dropping 
tears. 

Who  scorns  the  Poet's  art,  deserves  the  scorn 

Which  he  would  heap  on  others'  heads  ;  that  man 
Knows  not  the  sacred  gift  and  calling  born 
Within  the  Poet's  soul  when  life  began  : — 
Knows  not  that  he  must  speak,  and  not  for  fame. 
But  that  his  heart  would  wither  else  within  its  flame. 

Time's  wreaths  await  him  :   far  in  future  ages, 
Twined   in   their   amaranth    beauty  they   are 
shining, 
And  blessings  rained  upon  his  fragrant  pages, 
And  tears  from  kindred  hearts,  quenching  re- 
pining 
With  a  warm  sympathy,  and  smiles  of  joy 
Embalm  a  sacred  life  which  Time  cannot  destroy. 


THE  OCEAN. 

"  In  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Thoiicli  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
That  brought  us  hither, 
C.'in  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  cliildren  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore." 

Wordsworth. 

Tell  me,  brother,  what  are  we  ? — 
Spirits  bathing  in  the  sea 

Of  Deity ! 
Half  afloat  and  half  on  land, 
Wishing  much  to  leave  the  strand, — 
Standing,  gazing  with  devotion, 
Yet  afraid  to  trust  the  Ocean — 

Such  are  we. 

Wanting  love  and  holiness 
To  enjoy  the  wave's  caress ; 
Wanting  faith  and  heavenly  hope, 
Buoyantly  to  bear  us  up ; 
Yet  impatient  in  our  dwelling. 
When  we  hear  the  ocean  swelling. 
And  in  every  wave  that  rolls 
We  behold  the  happy  souls 
Peacefully,  triumphantly 
Swimming  on  the  smiling  sea, 
Then  we  linger  round  the  shore, 
Lovers  of  the  earth  no  more. 

Once, — 'twas  in  our  infancy. 
We  were  drifted  by  this  sea 
To  the  coast  of  human  birth. 
To  this  body  and  this  earth  : 
Gentle  were  the  hands  that  bore 
Our  young  spirits  to  the  shore  ; 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED 


63 


Gentle  lips  that  bade  us  look 
Outward  from  our  cradle  nook 
To  the  spirit-bearing  ocean 
With  such  wonder  and  devotion, 
As  each  stilly  %ibbath  day, 
We  were  led  a  little  way. 
Where  we  saw  the  waters  swell 
Far  away  from  inland  dell, 
And  recived  with  grave  delight 
Symbols  of  the  Infinite  :  — 
Then  our  home  was  near  the  sea  ; 
'•  Heaven  was  round  our  infancy  :" 
Night  and  day  we  heard  the  waves 
JNIurmuring  by  us  to  their  caves  ; — 
Floated  in  unconscious  life, 
With  no  later  doubts  at  strife, 
Trustful  of  the  upholding  Power 
Who  sustained  us  hour  by  hour. 
Now  we've  wandered  from  the  shore. 
Dwellers  by  the  sea  no  more  ; 
Yet  at  times  there  comes  a  tone 
Telling  of  the  visions  flown. 
Sounding  from  the  distant  sea, 
Where  we  left  our  purity; 
Distant  glimpses  of  the  surge 
Lure  us  down  to  ocean's  verge  ; 
There  we  stand  with  vague  distress, 
Yearning  for  the  measureless  ; 
By  half-wakened  instincts  driven, 
Half  loving  earth,  half  loving  heaven. 
Fearing  to  put  off  and  swim, 
Yet  impelled  to  turn  to  Him 
In  whose  life  we  live  and  move, 
And  whose  very  name  is  Love. 

Grant  me  courage,  Holy  One, 
To  become  indeed  thy  son, 
And  in  thee,  thou  Parent-Sea, 
Live  and  love  eternally. 


BEAUTY. 

Men  talk  of  Beauty — of  the  earth  and  sky. 
And  the  blue  stillness  of  sweet  inland  waters. 
And  search  all  language  with  a  lover's  eye. 
For  flowers  of   praise   to  deck    earth's  glorious 

daughters. 
And  it  is  vi'ell  within  the  soul  to  cherish 
Such  love  for  all  things  beautiful  around. 
But  there  is  Beauty  that  can  never  perish  ; 
A  hidden  path  no  "vulture's  eye"*  hath  found. 
Vainly  ye  seek  it  who  in  Sense  alone 
Wander  amid  the  sweets  the  world  hath  given  ; 
As  vainly  ye  who  make  the  Mind  the  throne. 
While  the  Heart  bends  a  slave,  insulted,  driven. 
Thou  who  wouldst  know  what  Beauty  this  can  be. 
Look  on  the  sunlight  of  the  Soul's  deep  purity. 

*  "There  is  a  path  which  no  fowl  knoweth,  and  which  the 
vulture's  eye  hath  not  seen."— Job  xxviii.  7. 


THE   ARTIST. 

He  breathed  the  air  of  realms  enchanted, 

He  bathed  in  seas  of  dreamy  light. 
And  seeds  within  his  soul  were  planted 
That  bore  us  flowers  for  use  too  bright, 
Unless  it  were  to  stay  some  wandering  spirit's  flight. 

With  us  he  lived  a  common  life. 

And  wore  a  plain  familiar  name, 
And  meekly  dared  the  vulgar  strife 
That  to  inferior  spirits  came  — 
Yet  bore  a  pulse  within,  the  world  could  never  tame. 

And  skies  more  soft  than  Italy's 

Their  wealth  of  light  around  him  spread, 
Their  tones  were  his,  and  only  his — 
So  sweetly  floating  o'er  his  head — 
None  knew  at  what  rich  feast  the  favoured  guest  was 
fed. 

They  could  not  guess  or  reason  why 

He  chose  the  ways  of  poverty ; 
They  read  no  wisdom  in  his  eye, 
But  scorned  the  holy  mystery 
That  brooded  o'er  his  thoughts  and  gave  him  power 
to  see. 

But  all  unveiled  the  world  of  Sense 

An  inner  meaning  had  for  him, 
And  Beauty  loved  in  innocence, 

Not  sought  in  passion  or  in  whim. 
Within  a  soul  so  pure  could  ne'er  grow  dull  and  dim. 

And  in  this  vision  did  he  toil. 

And  in  this  Beauty  lived  and  died. — 

And  think  not  that  he  left  his  soil 
By  no  rich  tillage  sanctified  ; 
In  olden  times  he  might  have  been  hi.s  country's  pride. 

And  yet  may  be — though  he  hath  gone — 

For  spirits  of  so  fine  a  mould 
Lose  not  the  glory  they  have  won; 

Their  memory  turns  not  pale  and  cold — 
While  Love  lives  on,  the  lovely  never  can  grow  old. 

FIRST  TRUTHS. 

They  come  to  me  at  night,  but  not  in  dreams, 

Those  revelations  of  realities  ; 

Just  at  the  turning  moment  ere  mine  eyes 

Are  closed  to  sleep,  they  come — clear  sudden  gleams, 

Brimfull  of  truth   like   drops   from   heaven's  deep 

streams 
They  glide  into  my  soul.     Entranced  in  prayer, 
I  gaze  upon  the  vision  shining  there. 
And  bless  the  Father  for  these  transient  beams. 
The  trite  and  faded  forms  of  Truth  then  fall. 
I  look  into  myseif,  and  all  alone 
Lie  bared  before  the  Eternal  All-in-all ; 
Or  wandering  forth  in  spirit,  on  me  thrown 
A  magic  robe  of  light,  I  roam  away 
To  the  true  vision-land,  unseen  by  day. 


64 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


THE  PROPHET  UNVEILED. 

Kindly  he  did  receive  us  where  he  dwelt 

And  in  his  smile  and  eye  I  inly  felt 

The  self-same  power,  the  influence  mild  and  grand, 

Which  o'er  our  kindred  souls  had  held  command, 

When  to  the  page  his  mind  had  wrought  we  turned. 

But  now  anew  our  hearts  within  us  burned, 

As  side  by  side,  we  hearkened  to  his  talk, 

Or  rambled  with  him  in  his  morning  walk. 

Unveiled  he  stood  ;  and  beautiful  he  moved 

Amid  home-sympathies; — a  heart  that  loved 

Nature  as  dearly  as  a  gentle  mother, 

And  man  as  a  great  spirit  and  a  brother. 

In  the  clear  deepening  river  of  his  thought. 

Welling  in  tones  and  words  by  nature  tau.;ht ; 

In  the  mild  lustre  of  the  long-lashed  eye. 

And  round  the  delicate  lips,  how  artlessly 

Broke  forth  the  intuitions  of  his  mind. 

I  listened  and  I  looked,  but  could  not  find 

Courage  or  words  to  tell  my  sympathy 

With  all  this  deep-toned  wisdom  borne  to  me. 

Still  less  could  I  declare  how,  ere  I  knew 

The  spell  his  visible  presence  o'er  me  threw. 

The  page  his  inspiration  wrought,  had  warmed 

Daily  to  life  the  faith  within  me  formed 

Of  Nature's  great  relationship  to  man  ; 

So  far  his  speed  of  sight  my  o^\^l  outran. 

And  if  I  spoke,  it  seemed  to  me  my  thought 

Was  but  a  pale  and  broken  reflex  caught 

From  his  own  orb  ;  so  silently  I  sat 

Drinking  in  truth  and  beauty.     Yet  there  was  that 

In  his  serene  and  sympathizing  smile. 

Which  as  I  listened,  told  me  all  the  while 

That  nearer  intercourse  might  give  me  right 

To  come  within  the  region  of  his  light ; 

Not  to  be  dazzled,  moth-like,  by  his  flame, 

But  go  as  independent  as  I  came. 

And  once  again  within  the  lighted  hall, 
Where  Mind  and  Beauty  gathered  to  his  call, 
We  heard  him  speak  ;  upon  his  eye  and  tongue, 
Dropping  their  golden  thoughts  we  mutely  hung. 
Aurora  shootings  mixed  with  summer  lightning, 
Meteors  of  truth  thro'  beauty's  sky  still  bright'ning; 
Phoenix-lived  things  born  amid  stars  and  flashes. 
And  rising  rocket-winged  from  their  own  ashes  ; 
Pearls  prodigally  rained,  too  large  and  fast; 
Rich-music  tones  too  sweet  and  rare  to  last — 
Such  seemed  his  natural  utterance  as  it  passed. 
And  yet  the  steadier  light  that  shone  alway, 
Looked  through  these  meteors  in  their  rapid  play, 
And  warmed  around  us  like  the  sunlight  mild, 
And  Truth  in  Beauty's  robes  stood  by  and  smiled. 


DIRGE  FOR  A  YOUNG  GIRL. 

From  the  Spanish. 
BY    JAMES   T.    FIELDS. 

Underneath  the  sod,  low  lying,  dark  and  drear, 
Sleepeth  one  who  left,  in  d}^ng,  sorrow  here. 
Yes,  they're  ever-bending  o'er  her,  eyes  that  weep  ; 
Forms  that  to  the  cold  grave  bore  her,  vigils  keep. 
When  the  summer  moon  is  shining  soft  and  fair, 
Friends  she  loved,  in  tears  are  twining  chaplets  there. 
Rest  in  peace,  thou  gentle  spirit,  throned  above  ; 
Souls  like  thine  with  God  inherit  life  and  love. 


TO  LITTLE  MARY. 

The  following  beautiful  lines  were  addressed  to  a 
little  girl — an  only  child — in  this  city,  who,  in  her 
sleep,  repeated  the  passage  she  was  accustomed 
nightly  to  utter  before  closing  her  eyes. 

"  I  konwthat  the  angola  are  whiepcrinc  to  thee." 

Thou  art  so  like  a  dream  of  heaven, 

That  still  thy  visions  seem, 
Like  that  phenomenon  of  sleep, 

A  dream  within  a  dream  ! 
And  pure  the  thoughts  that  memory  brings, 

To  voice  thy  dreaming  hour ; 
The  butterfly  has  closed  its  wings. 

Upon  a  lily  flower  ! 
"  God  bless  me — 7nake  me  a  good  girl." — Amen. 

Not  such  the  dream  by  slumber  thrown, 

When  griefs  rough  swell  is  o'er ; 
The  ebb  of  pain,  its  after  moan  I 

The  surge  upon  the  shore  ! 
Thy  prayer  is  but  the  echoing 

Of  waking  peace  and  love. 
The  rustling  of  the  Spirit's  wing  I 

The  cooing  of  its  dove  ! 
"  God  bless  me — make  me  a  good  girl." — Amen. 

The  roses  of  the  Persian  field. 

With  all  their  wealth  of  bloom. 
Are  crush'd,  though  thousands  may  but  yield 

A  drop  of  rich  perfume  ; 
And  thus,  the  heart  with  feeling  rife, 

Is  crushed,  alas  !  by  care  : 
Yet,  blest,  if  suffering  wring  from  life, 

Its  other  drop — of  prayer. 
"  God  bless  me — make  me  a  good  girl. ^' — ,imen. 

Mother  !  sweet  mother  !  thou  hast  taught 

That  infant  soul  to  pray. 
Before  a  rose-leaf  from  its  thought 

The  world  has  blown  away — 
Prayer  !  on  that  lip  that  once  was  thine  I 

Thoughts,  of  thine  own  a  part ! 
Dropp'd  jewels  of  thy  spirit's  mine. 

Sleep  scatters  o'er  her  heart  I 
"  God  bless  inc — make  mc  a  good  girl," — Amen. 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE  HEAHTER 


THE  SLAVE  MARKET  AT  WASHINGTON. 

BY  JOHN  G.   WIIITTIIiR. 

I  find,  in  a  late  number  of  the  Albany  Patriot,  a  [ 
letter  from  a  gentleman  in  the  city  of  Washington, 
addressed  to  the  editor,  from  which  I  take  the  fol- 
lowing paragraphs  : 

"  This  year,  over  five  thousand  slaves  have  already 
been  sold  in  our  dens  of  diabolism,  and  many  more 
heart  strings  will  be  broken  before  the  winter  sets  in,  by 
sundering  all  the  ties  of  life,  to  mcctthe  demand  of  hu- 
man victims  in  the  Louisiana  market.  In  Florida,  also, 
the  demand  has  been  increased,  by  the  diabolical  law 
to  '  encourage  the  armed  settlement'  of  that  slavery- 
cursed  territory,  and  thus  increase  the  political  weight 
of  the  slave  system  in  the  councils  of  the  country. 

"  Scenes  have  taken  place  in  Washington,  this  sum- 
mer, that  would  make  the  devil  blush  through  tbc 
darkness  of  the  pit,  if  he  had  been  caught  in  them.  A 
fortnight  ago  last  Tuesday,  no  less  than  SIXTY  HU- 
MAN BEINGS  were  carried  right  by  the  capitol  yard 
to  a  slave  ship !  The  men  were  chained  in  couples, 
and  fastened  to  a  log  chain,  as  it  is  common  in  this  re- 
gion. The  women  walked  by  their  side.  The  little 
children  were  carried  along  in  wagons." 

In  the  summer  of  1840,  when  in  Washington,  I 
took  occasion,  in  company  with  two  friends,  to  visit 
the  principal  slave-trading  establishments  of  the 
district.  In  Alexandria,  at  a  great  slave  prison  for- 
merly known  as  Franklin  &  Armfield's,  there  were 
about  fifty  slaves.  They  were  enclosed  by  high, 
strong  walls,  with  grated  iron  doors.  Among  them 
was  a  poor  woman  who  had  escaped,  twelve  years 
before,  from  slavery,  and  who  had  married  a  free 
man.  She  had  been  hunted  out  by  some  of  those 
human  blood-hounds,  who  are  in  the  detestable  oc- 
cupation of  slave-catchers,  separated  from  her  hus- 
band, and,  with  her  child,  had  been  sold  to  the  spec- 
ulators for  the  New  Orleans  market.  Another  v/o- 
man,  whose  looks  and  manner  were  expressive  of 
deep  anguish,  had,  with  her  nine  children,  been  sold 
away  from  her  husband — an  everlasting  separation  ! 
But  her  sorrows  had  but  just  begun.  Long  ere  this, 
she  and  her  children  have  probably  been  re-sold, 
scattered  and  divided,  and  are  now  toiling  in  hope- 
less bereavement,  or  buried  like  brutes,  without  a 
tear  or  Christian  rite,  on  the  banks  of  the  Missis- 
sippi. 

From  this  horrible  MARKET  HOUSE  of  HU- 
MAN FLESH,  we  were  informed  that  from  fifteen 
hundred  to  two  thousand  slaves  are  sometimes  sent 
to  the  South  in  a  single  year. 

At  the  Alexandria  public  jail  was  a  poor  lad  who 
9 


had  come  to  the  city  in  a  vessel,  and  had  been  seized 
and  imprisoned  on  suspicion  of  being  a  slave.  As 
he  happened  to  have  no  document  to  prove  his  free- 
dom, after  having  been  kept  in  close  confinement  in 
a  prison  cell  for  six  months,  he  was  in  a  few  days  to 
be  sold  as  a  slave,  to  pay  the  fees  of  the  jailor ! 

We  visited,  the  next  day,  a  slave  holder's  estab- 
lishment in  the  city  of  Washington.  It  stood  some- 
what ajiart  from  the  dense  part  of  the  city,  yet  in 
full  view  of  the  capitol.  Its  dark,  strong  walls  rose 
in  dim  contrast  with  the  green  beauty  of  early  sum- 
mer— a  horror  and  an  abomination — a  blot  upon  the 
fair  and  pleasant  landscape.  We  looked  in  upon  a 
group  of  human  beings  herded  together  like  cattle 
for  the  market.  The  young  man  in  attendance  in- 
formed us  that  there  were  five  or  six  other  regular 
slave  dealers  in  the  city,  who,  having  no  prisons  of 
their  own,  kept  their  slaves  in  this  establishment, 
or  in  the  CITY  PRISON.  The  following  advertise- 
ment of  this  infernal  market  house,  I  have  copied 
from  the  Washington  Globe  and  the  Intelligencer  : 

"  CASH     PAID    ron    KEGROES." 

"  The  subscriber  wishes  to  purchase  a  number  of  ne- 
groes for  the  liouisiana  and  Mississippi  markets.  He 
will  pay  the  highest  price  which  the  market  will  justify. 
Himself  or  agent,  at  all  times,  can  be  found  at  his 
.JAIL,  on  Seventh  street,  the  first  house  south  of  the 
market  bridge,  on  the  west  side.  Letters  addressed  to 
him  will  receive  the  earliest  attention. 

William  H.  Williams." 

In  the  same  papers,  four  other  regular  dealers  in 
human  beings  advertised  themselves.  In  addition, 
George  Kephart,  of  Alexandria,  advertised  the  "  cop- 
per fastened  brig,  Isaac  Franklin.''  It  was  nearly 
ready  to  sail  with  slaves  for  New  Orleans.  So  much 
for  the  national  newspaper  organs  of  the  whig  and  de- 
mocratic parties  I  What  must  be  the  state  of  parties 
which  can  acknowledge  such  papers  as  their  mouth 
pieces. 

On  the  wall  of  the  slave  dealer's  office  were  sus- 
pended some  low  and  disgraceful  pictures  and  carica- 
tures, in  which  the  abolitionists  and  blacks  were 
represented,  and  in  which  Daniel  O'Connell  and  John 
Q.  Adams  held  a  prominent  position,  as  objects  for 
the  obscene  jokes  and  witticism  of  the  scoundrel 
traffickers.  For  one,  I  regard  it  as  an  honorable  tes- 
timony to  the  faithfulness  and  heroism  of  these  great 
and  good  men,  in  their  advocacy  of  human  freedom. 
The  time  is,  I  trust,  not  far  distant,  when  those  very 


66 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED 


pictures  shall  cause  the  knees  of  the  base  pirates 
who  congregate  in  the  den  of  iniquity,  to  smite  to- 
gether. 

Known  to  God  only,  is  the  dreadful  amount  of  hu- 
man agony  and  suffering,  which,  from  this  slave-jail, 
has  sent  its  cry,  unheard  or  unheeded  of  man,  up  to 
His  ear.  The  mother  weeping  for  her  child — the 
wife  separated  from  her  husband,  breaking  the 
night  silence  with  the  shriek  of  breaking  hearts  I 
Now  and  then  an  appalling  fact  shed  light  upon  the 
secret  horrors  of  the  prison  house.  In  the  winter 
of  1838,  a  poor  colored  man,  overcome  with  horror 
at  being  sold  to  the  South,  put  an  end  to  his  life  by 
cutting  his  tliroat. 

From  the  private  establishment  we  next  proceed- 
ed to  the  old  city  prison — built  by  the  people  of  the 
United  States — the  common  property  of  the  nation. 
It  is  a  damp,  dark,  loathsome  building.  We  passed 
between  two  ranges  of  small  stone  cells,  filled  with 
blacks.  We  noticed  five  or  six  in  a  single  cell  which 
seemed  scarcely  large  enough  for  a  solitary  tenant. 
The  heat  was  suffocating.  In  rainy  weather,  the 
keeper  told  us  that  the  prison  was  uncomfortably 
wet.  In  winter,  there  could  be  no  fire  in  these  cells. 
The  keeper,  with  some  reluctance,  admitted  that  he 
received  slaves  from  the  traders,  and  kept  them  until 
they  were  sold,  at  thirty-four  cents  per  da3^  Men 
of  the  North  !  it  was  your  money  which  helped  pile 
the  granite  of  these  cells,  and  forge  the  massy  iron 
doors,  for  the  benefit  of  slave  traders  !  It  is  your 
property  which  is  thus  perverted ! 

But  to  me  this  prison  had  a  painful  and  peculiar 
interest.  It  was  here  that  Dr.  Crandall,  of  New 
York,  was  confined  for  several  months.  His  health 
was  completely  broken  down,  and  he  was  released 
only  to  find  a  grave.  Do  you  ask  what  was  his 
crime  ?  He  had  circulated  among  some  members  of 
his  profession,  at  Washington,  a  copy  of  a  pamphlet 
written  by  myself,  on  the  subject  of  slavery,  and  in 
favor  of  freedom  !  Here  in  darkness,  dampness,  and 
silence,  his  warm,  generous  heart  died  within 
bim.  And  this  was  in  Washington — in  the  metro- 
polis of  our  free  country — in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. 

Scarcely  an  hour  before  my  visit  to  the  prison,  I 
had  been  in  the  senate  chamber  of  the  United  States. 
I  had  seen  the  firm  lip,  the  broad,  full  brow,  and 
beaming  eye  of  Calhoun,  the  stern  repose  of  a  face 
written  over  with  thought,  and  irradiated  with  the 
deep,  still  fires  of  genius.  I  had  conversed  with 
Henry  Clay,  once  the  object  of  my  boyish  enthusi- 
asm, and  encountered  the  fascination  of  his  smile, 
and  winning  voice,  as  he  playfully  reproached  me  for 
deserting  an  old  friend.  I  had  there,  in  spite  of  my 
knowledge  of  its  gross  perversion  to  the  support  of 
wrong,  felt  something  of  that  re.«pect  and  reverence 
which  is  always  extorted  by  intellectual  power.  For 
the  moment  I  half  forgot,  in  my  appreciations  of  the 
gifts  of  genius  with   which  these  men  have  been  so 


wonderfully  endowed,  the  fact  that  they  have  em- 
ployed their  talents  in  upholding  a  system  which 
crushes  and  kills  the  minds  of  millions.  But  here 
in  the  slave  prison,  I  saw  them  in  another  light. — 
The  fascinations  of  genius,  which,  like  the  silver 
veil  of  the  Eastern  Prophet,  had  covered  them,  fell 
off,  and  left  only  the  deformity  of  tyranny.  I  look- 
ed upon  the  one  as  the  high  priest  of  slavery,  min- 
istering at  its  altar,  and  scowling  defiance  to  the  re- 
ligion and  philanthro])y  of  Christendom — the  fitting 
champion  of  that  southern-democracy,  whose  appro- 
priate emblem  is  the  SLAVE-WHIP,  with  the  ne- 
gro at  one  end,  and  an  overseer  at  the  other.  And 
with  God's  immortal  children,  converted  into  mer- 
chandize, I  thought  of  Henry  Clay's  declaration  : 
"  That  is  property  which  the  law  makes  property," 
and  that  "two  hundred  years  had  sanctioned  and 
sanctified  slavery." I  saw  the  inti- 
mate and  complete  connection  between  the  planter 
who  raises  the  slave  for  market,  the  dealer  who 
buys  him,  the  legislator  who  sustains  and  legalizes 
the  traffic,  and  Ihe  7iorthern  freemen,  who  by  his  vole 
places  that  legislator  in  power.  In  the  silence  of  my 
soul,  I  pledged  myself  anew  to  liberty  ;  and  felt  at 
that  moment  the  baptism  of  a  new  life-long  conse- 
cration to  the  cause.  God  helping  me,  the  resolu- 
tion which  I  then  formed,  shall  be  fulfilled  to  the 
uttermost ! 

I  left  that  prison  with  mingled  feelings  of  shame, 
sorrow,  and  indignation.  Before  me  was  the  great 
dome  of  the  capitol ;  our  national  representatives 
were  passing  and  re-passing  on  the  marble  stairs — 
over  all,  the  stripes  and  stars  fluttered  in  the  breeze 
which  swept  down  the  Potomac.  I  was  thus  com- 
pelled to  realize  the  fact,  that  the  abominations  I  had 
looked  upon,  were  in  the  District  of  Columbia — the 
chosen  home  of  our  republic — the  hearthstone  of  our 
national  honor — that  the  representatives  of  the  na- 
tions of  Europe  here  looked,  at  one  and  the  same 
glance,  upon  the  capitol  and  the  slave  jail.  Not  long 
before,  a  friend  had  placed  in  my  hand,  a  letter  from 
Seidensticker,  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  patriotic 
movement  in  behalf  of  German  liberty  in  1S31.  It 
was  written  from  the  prison  of  Celle,  where  he  has 
been  for  eleven  years  a  living  martyr  to  the  cause 
of  freedom.  In  this  letter,  the  noble  German  ex- 
presses his  indignant  astonishment  at  the  speeches  of 
Calhoun  and  others  in  Congress  on  the  subject  of 
slavery,  and  deplores  the  sad  influence  which  our 
slave  system  is  exerting  upon  the  freedom  of  Eu- 
rope. I  could  thus  estimate  in  some  degree  the 
blighting  effects  of  our  union  of  liberty  and  slavery, 
upon  the  cause  of  political  reform  in  the  old  world, 
strengthening  the  hands  of  the  Peels  and  JVIetter- 
nichs,  and  deepening  around  the  martyrs  and  con- 
fessors of  European]  freedom  the  cold  shadow  of 
their  prisons.  All  that  I  had  said  or  done  for  the 
cause  of  emancipation  heretofore,  seemed  cold  and 
trifling  at  that  moment,  and  even  now,  when  I  am 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


67 


disposed  to  blame  the  ardor  and  enthusiasm  of  some 
of  my  friends,  and  censure  their  harsh  denunciations 
of  slavery  and  its  abettors,  I  think  of  the  slave  jails 
of  the  District  of  Columbia,  and  am  constrained  to 
exclaim  with  Jonathan  Edwards,  when,  in  his  day, 
he  was  accused  of  fanaticism  ;  "  If  these  things  be 
enthusiasms,  and  the  fruits  of  a  distempered  imagi- 
nation, let  me  still  ever  more  possess  them."  It  is 
a  very  easy  thing,'^at  our  comfortable  northern  fire- 
sides, to  condemn  and  deplore  the  zeal  and  extrava- 
gance of  abolitionists,  and  to  reach  the  conclusion 
that  slavery  is  a  trifling  matter,  in  comparison  to 
the  great  questions  of  banks  and  sub-treasuries  ;  but 
he  who  can  visit  the  SLAVE  MARKETS  of  the 
DISTRICT,  without  feeling  his  whole  nature 
aroused  in  indignation,  must  be  more  or  less  than  a 
man. 

Amesbury,  ZQth  of  \Oth  mo.,  1843. 


ON  SEEING  m  A  LIST  OF  MUSIC  THE 
'WATERLOO  WALTZ.' 

A  moment  pause,  ye  British  fair, 

While  pleasure's  phantom  ye  pxirsue, 
And  say  if  sprightly  dance  or  air 
Suit  with  the  name  of'  Waterloo  !' 
Awful  was  the  victory, 
Chasten'd  should  the  triumph  be  : 
Amidst  the  laurels  dearly  won, 
Britain  mourns  for  many  a  son. 

Veil'd  in  clouds  the  morning  rose  ; 
Nature  seem'd  to  mourn  the  day 
Which  consign'd.  before  its  close, 
Thousands  to  their  kindred  clay ; 
How  unfit  for  courtly  ball. 
Or  the  giddy  festival, 
Was  the  grim  and  ghastly  view. 
Ere  evening  closed  on  Waterloo  ! 

See  the  highland  warrior  rushing, 

Firm  in  danger,  on  the  foe. 
Till  the  life-blood,  warmly  gushing. 
Lays  the  plaided  hero  low  ! 

His  native  pipes'  accustom'd  sound, 
'Mid  war's  infernal  concert  drown'd, 
Cannot  soothe  the  last  adieu. 
Or  wake  his  sleep  on  Waterloo. 

Chasing  o'er  the  cuirassier, 

See  the  foaming  charger  flying. 
Trampling  in  his  wild  career. 
All  alike,  the  dead  and  dying. 
See  the  bullets  through  his  side 
Answer'd  by  the  spouting  tide  ; 
Helmet,  horse,  and  rider  too. 
Roll  on  bloody  Waterloo  1 


Shall  scenes  like  these  the  dance  inspire, 
Or  wake  th'  enlivening  notes  of  mirth? 
No  I  shiver'd  be  the  recreant  lyre 
That  gave  this  dark  idea  birth ! 
Other  sounds,  I  ween,  were  there, 
Other  music  rent  the  air, 
Other  waltz  the  warriors  knew, 
When  they  closed  on  Waterloo. 

Forbear,  till  time,  with  lenient  hand, 

Has  sooth'd  the  pangs  of  recent  sorrow, 
And  let  the  picture  distant  stand. 

The  softening  hue  of  years  to  borrow. 
When  our  race  have  passed  away, 
Hands  unborn  may  wake  the  lay — 
Yet  mournfully  should  ages  view 
The  horrid  deeds  at  Waterloo  \ 


LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

BY    FELICI.'V    D.    HEMANS. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock  bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed  ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er. 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes. 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame. 

Not  as  the  flying  come. 

In  silence  and  in  fear ; — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard  and  the  sea ! 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean-eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared — 

This  was  their  welcome  home  ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair, 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band  ; — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye. 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 


06 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? — 
The  wealth  of  seas  ? — the  spoils  of  war  ? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ! 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found ; 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 


DIETETIC    REFORM. 

BY    JA.MES    SELLERS,    JR. 

"A  few  nerves  hardly  visible  on  the  surface  of  the  tongue, 
create  most  of  the  endless  stir  around  ua." 

Dr.  \V.  E.  Chanslng. 

It  is  not  essential  to  our  view  of  this  subject,  that 
we  consider  the  perfection  of  the  physical  frame  the 
sole  object  of  life.  Either  they  who  discard  the 
idea  that  soul  and  body  are  separate  entities,  or  they 
who  look  upon  the  outward  man  as  the  mere  taber- 
nacle of  the  spirit,  must  upon  proper  scrutiny  admit 
the  superior  claims  of  this  reform,  or  call  in  question 
truths  which  they  have  been  wont  to  style  self- 
evident. 

Science  and  general  truth  through  all  their  stages 
of  development  have  tended  to  confirm  the  intuitive- 
ly-perceived fact  of  intimate  relationship  and  de- 
pendence between  body  and  mind.  And  now,  when 
the  particular  branches  of  Physiology,  Anatomy, 
and  Phrenology  are  enveloped  in  clustering  revela- 
tions of  the  same  great  truth,  the  importance  of  the 
subject  under  consideration  is  becoming  more  dis- 
tinct. Then  as  a  mere  instrument  for  superior 
mental  conception  and  labor,  the  physical  frame 
should  be  regulated  with  an  eye  to  the  highest  de- 
gree of  purity  and  perfection. 

Yet,  however  evident  this  fact  may  be  to  the  en- 
quiring mind,  few  as  yet  have  felt  and  acknowledged 
the  defects  of  the  present  dietetic  habits  of  the  race. 

With  all  the  apparent  ignorance  which  prevails 
upon  this  vital  matter,  it  is  a  little  singular  that  the 
presentation  of  truth  concerning  it,  almost  invariably 
awakens  at  least  a  partial  response  in  the  breast  of 
the  hearer.  Thus  when  the  standard  of  abstinence 
from  alcohol  was  reared  in  this  wine-bibbing  nation, 
despite  the  fact  of  its  enthronement  upon  the  dining 
table,  the  sideboard,  in  the  dancing  saloon,  the  select 
meeting,  and  even  on  the  altar  of  the  Church,  the 
wine-cup  was  felt  to  be  the  den  of  a  serpent  as  dead- 
ly in  its  sting,  as  sly  in  its  approaches ;  and  the 
faithful  note  of  warning  from  the  earnest  advocate 
of  this  cause,  seemed  to  fall  upon  ears  not  entirely 
insensible  to  the  presence  of  danger.  Th;2  same  re- 
mark is  true  of  the  kindred  but  more  prevalent 
draughts  of  tea  and  coffee.  These  dishes  daily  steam 
upon  the  table  of  the  veteran  tee-totalrr.  And  the 
Washingtonian,  dealing  his  resistless  blows  upon  the 
hydra-head  of  alcohol,   fails  to  observe  the  double 


monster  that  springs  into  existence  in  the  increasing 
consumption  of  tea  and  coffee.  When  men  dashed 
from  their  lips  the  wine-cup,  they  felt  sensibly  the 
absence  of  the  usual  stimulus,  and  thoughtlessly 
deemed  that  health  demanded  a  substitute.  But  the 
appetite  was  morbid  and  artificial  ;  and  true  wisdom, 
instead  of  gratil'ying  it  with  opium,  tobacco,  tea  or 
coffee,  would  dictate  the  entire  disuse  of  every  un- 
natural stimulant.  The  castor  has  supplanted  the 
decanter,  and  is  faithfully  nursing  an  appetite  which 
may  gather  such  strength  of  injportunity,  that  men 
shall  forget  their  vows  and  fall  back  to  their  low  es- 
tate of  sensuality.  Individual  reform  does  not  pause. 
If  we  cease  to  progress,  we  are  g-adually  swept 
back  by  a  strong  current  of  animality  to  that  abyss 
from  which  we  have  emerged.  How  important,  then, 
is  the  relinquishment  of  those  fiery  condiments 
which  foster  every  animal  passion  of  our  nature, 
and  disturb  the  equable  manifestation  of  the  loftiest 
sentiments  of  the  human  soul. 

It  cannot  be  expected  that  any  partial  reform  shall 
secure  to  us  that  exemption  from  the  appeals  of  our 
lower  nature  which  is  the  gift  only  of  perfect  obe- 
dience. Subserviency  to  one  appetite  perpetually 
endangers  the  freedom  of  the  noblest  soul.  The 
sword  of  the  warrior  will  not  be  sheathed  before  the 
knife  of  the  butcher :  and  men  who  look  compla- 
cently upon  the  death-struggle  of  the  lamb  or  the  ox 
will  scarcely  shrink  from  the  gallows,  or  the  mur- 
derous scenes  of  war.  In  the  refined  circles  of  soci- 
ety how  many  freely  partake  of  that  flesh  whose 
hideousness  the  cook  has  partially  concealed ;  and 
yet  did  necessity  impose  upon  them  the  slaughter 
and  preparation  of  the  carcase,  would  well  nigh  faint 
at  the  bare  thought  of  the  task.  To  such  we  sug- 
gest that  what  we  do  by  another  is  essentially  the 
act  of  our  own  hands — that  the  blade  of  the  carving- 
knife  is  dyed  as  deeply  as  that  which  opens  the 
vein  of  the  struggling  victim.  It  is  said,  by  sensi- 
tive ones,  to  be  vulgar  and  indelicate  to  mention  these 
things.  So  said  the  slave-holder  when  reminded  of 
his  lust  and  concubinage.  But  the  true  soul  shrinks 
not  from  the  utterance  of  truth,  however  it  may  jar 
upon  the  sensual  ear.  If  the  social  arrangements 
are  such  that  we  cannot  see  the  work  of  our  own 
hands,  some  friendly  arm  is  needed  to  withdraw  the 
veil  which  shrouds  the  action  from  the  actor.  In- 
tellect recedes  before  the  fattened  herd,  and  morali- 
ty grows  faint  beside  the  meat-block,  while  human 
sympathy  sickens  and  dies  upon  the  threshhold  of 
the  slaughter-house.  How  vain  then  will  be  our 
appeals  on  behalf  of  defenceless  humanity,  when  the 
earth  is  deluged  with  the  blood  of  the  innocent  vic- 
tims of  our  lust  and  sensuality.  To  the  purified 
palate  it  is  a  source  of  surprise  that  men  do  not  turn 
from  the  revolting  diet  of  animal  flesh  and  secre- 
tions, to  the  sweet  feast  of  fruits  and  grains,  which 
Nature  has  lavished  upon  her  great  board  around 
which  wc  are  all  permitted  to  gather.     What  I — says 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


69 


the  high-liver — would  you  cut  us  off  from  the  gener- 
ous pleasures  of  the  table  1  Alas  !  he  is  indeed  a 
short-sighted  epicure  who  lives  to  eat.  Only  he 
who  takes  his  unleavened  cake  to  keep  warm  the 
blood  in  his  veins,  knovi's  ought  of  table-pleasures  in 
their  largest  sense.  His  is  an  appetite  that  never 
palls — a  debauch  followed  by  no  morning  aches,  and 
bringing  no  ghosts  of  misspent  hours  and  squander- 
ed funds. 

One  of  the  beauties  of  the  Temperance  reforma- 
tion is,  that  upon  which  the  changes  have  been  much 
rung,  and  with  no  little  justice — its  wealth-giving 
power.  The  rum-bottle  and  the  ragged-elbow  are 
wont  to  be  thought  inseparable  companions.  "  Many 
loaves  of  wholesome  and  nourishing  bread  cannot 
be  reduced  to  a  pint  of  poison,"  says  the  temperance 
economist,  "  without  diminishing  actual  wealth." 

Six  acres  of  soil,  any  one  of  which  would  give 
the  bread  of  life  to  three  human  beings,  cannot  ex- 
haust their  produce  upon  the  ox  that  scarce  sustains 
the  gross  existence  of  one  flesh  consumer,  without 
robbing  the  individual  and  the  race  of  that  mental 
and  moral  culture  which  is  their  birth-right. 

Female  loveliness,  cultivation  and  accomplish- 
ment shall  be  utter  strangers  to  the  farm,  while 
dairy-slavery  imposes  its  shackles  upon"^ur  maidens, 
stripping  them  of  those  moments  which  are  their 
inalienable  right  by  virtue  of  the  graces  given  to 
improve  therein. 

Complaint  has  been  uttered  that  woman  has  failed 
to  contribute  her  just  proportion  to  the  general  trea- 
sury of  science  and  literature  ;  but  until  the  crucible 
supplants  the  cream-jug,  and  the  butter-print  is  re- 
linquished for  the  pen,  it  will  be  folly  to  hope  for 
other  results.  The  great  fact  stares  us  in  the  face, 
that  in  this  particular,  as  elsewhere,  'tis  Eve  that 
proffers  the  forbidden  fruit  to  Adam.  It  is  no  cause 
of  surprise  that  refined  men  and  women  shrink  from 
labor  when  so  much  of  it  lies  in  cattle-stalls,  and 
cow-yards.  Labor,  when  redeemed  from  these  and 
other  excrescences,  will  be  viewed  as  the  legitimate 
sphere  of  the  divine  man.  Woman  shall  then  find 
her  highest  attributes  dependent  upon  exertion,  and 
shall  throw  off  the  doll  now  imposed  by  society,  that 
she  may  assume  more  readily  her  divine  character. 
Health  and  virtue  both  call  for  physical  exercise,  for 
as  the  humours  of  the  system  stagnate,  and  the 
muscles  grow  weak  in  a  state  of  bodily  torpidity — 
so  a  life  on  the  productions  of  another's  labor  de- 
stroys the  force  of  conscience,  and  lowers  the  moral 
standard.  It  may  be  urged  that  society  has  no  fur- 
ther claim  upon  him  who  throws  into  the  common 
treasury  a  quota  of  intellect.  This  may  be  true  of 
society,  l^ut  false  when  applied  to  the  individual 
member,  for  nothing  short  of  the  divine  right  to 
labor  can  satisfy  his  claims. 

Much  eloquence  and  logic  has  been  spent  latterly 
upon  a  variety  of  projects  for  that  associated  action 
whose  economies  shall  abolish  poverty,  and  lift  the 


mass  from  a  state  of  perpetual  delving  to  one  of  com- 
parative leisure  and  freedom  from  toil. 

Now,  there  is  a  great  truth  in  thus  handing  toge- 
ther more  closely  the  interests  and  labours  of  the 
race,  yet  if  men  will  gratify  their  lusts  by  the  sacri- 
fice of  the  highest  attainments  of  intelligence  and 
morality,  associated  action  will  free  them,  in  the 
pursuit  of  these  gratifications,  from  a  vast  amount  of 
necessary  drudgery.  Hence  the  tendency  of  this 
accumulated  power  will  only  be  to  pander  more  suc- 
cessfully to  sensuality,  unless  preceded  or  accom- 
panied by  Dietetic  Reform. 

As  it  is  an  act  fraught  with  danger  to  the  by- 
standers to  place  in  the  hands  of  a  fettered  maniac 
the  file  or  the  saw,  so  may  association  prove  a  curse 
by  placing  within  the  reach  of  the  sensualist  supe- 
rior facilities  for  vice  than  present  society  confers. 
Nothing  then,  can  be  more  obvious  than  the  fact 
that  human  progression  has  for  its  basis  bodily 
purification.  If  the  philanthropist  would  wit- 
ness the  overthrow  of  slavery,  the  cessation  of 
war,  the  abolition  of  the  gallows,  or  the  triumph  of 
temperance,  let  him  withhold  from  his  table  car- 
cases and  condiment,  and  all  that  shall  prove  a 
snare  to  the  pure  young  souls  that  gather  around  his 
board.  And  if  he  be  an  ardent  lover  of  his  race  his 
efforts  will  not  cease  here,  but  his  testimony  will  be 
a  beacon-light  upon  every  point  of  Eternity's  coast 
the  shifting  waves  of  Time  may  cast  him. 

THOUGHTS  IN  A  LIBRARY. 

BY    ANNE   C.    LYNCH. 

Speak  low — tread  softly  through  these  halls  ! 

Here  genius  lives  enshrined, 
Here  reign  in  silent  majesty 

The  monarchs  of  the  mind. 

A  mighty  spirit-host  they  come 

From  every  age  and  clime, — 
Above  the  buried  wrecks  of  years 

They  breast  the  tide  of  Time. 

And  in  their  presence  chamber  here 

They  hold  their  regal  state, 
And  round  them  throng  a  noble  train, 

The  gifted  and  the  great. 

Oh  I   child  of  toil  I  when  round  thy  path 

The  storms  of  life  arise  ! 
And  when  thy  brothers  pass  thee  by 

With  stern  unloving  eyes  ! 

Here  shall  the  Poets  chant  for  thee 

Their  sweetest,  loftiest  lays, 
And  Prophets  wait  to  guide  thy  steps 

In  wisdom's  pleasant  ways. 

Come,  with  these  God-anointed  kings 

Be  thou  companion  here ; 
And  in  the  mighty  realm  of  mind 

Thou  shalt  go  forth  a  Peer. 


70 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


LETTER  FROM  C.  C.  BURLEIGH 

To  an  Anti-Slavery  Convention,  for  Eastern  Pennsyl- 
vania, laid  at  Norristown,  Eighth-month  1,  1842. 

MoNTPELiER,  Seventh-month  28,  1842. 

Though,  as  you  are  well  aware,  I  cannot  be  with 
you  in  person  at  your  grand  gathering  in  Norristown 
next  week,  yet  neither  can  I  consent  to  be  wlioliy 
absent.  Fain  would  I,  that  you  and  all  my  beloved 
fellow-laborers  there  assembled,  should  think  of  me 
not  as  now  a  stranger  or  a  foreigner  ; — as  one  re- 
moved from  among  you,  and  belonging  to  another 
scene  of  action.  Let  me  still  be  counted  as  one  of 
you.  Let  my  place  be  kept  for  me,  as  if  I  had  but 
stepped  aside  for  a  moment,  soon  to  be  in  it  again. 
It  is  hardly  needful  to  assure  you  that  I  shall  be  with 
you  in  spirit,  and  that,  separated  as  we  are  for  a  time, 
I  still  feel  a  lively  interest  in  whatever  concerns  our 
common  cause,  in  that— so  long  my  own— field  of 
labor.  So  long  !  nay,  still  my  own  ;  for  so  I  regard 
it,  and  look  forward  with  glad  anticipation  to  the 
time,  as  not  far  distant,  when  we  shall  be  once  more 
too-ether ;  and,  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the  same 
rank  of  the  anti-slavery  host,  press  forward  in  the 
arduous  struggle  wherein  you  have  so  often  aided 
and  cheered  me  on.  My  heart  is  with  you  now,  and 
words  cannot  speak  the  joy  it  would  give  me  to  be 
at  your  meeting,  to  celebrate  with  you  the  glorious 
jubilee  of  the  West  India  slave ;  to  plan  with  you 
the  future  toils  which  are  to  win  a  still  more  glori- 
ous jubilee  for  the  captives  of  our  own  land  ;  to 
kindle  anew  each  other's  zeal,  infuse  into  each 
other's  souls  fresh  energy  and  resolution,  re-nerving 
them  for  the  conflicts  we  have  yet  to  meet  ;  and 
once  more  unite  with  you  in  solemnly  pledging  to 
the  cause,  our  time,  our  strength,  our  talents,  our 
substance,  and  whatsoever  it  be  "wherewith  the 
Lord  our  God  has  blessed  us,"  as  means  for  being 
co-workers  with  him  in  delivering  the  spoiled  out  of 
the  hand  of  the  oppressor. 

I  know  you  need  not  my  admonition,  to  remind 
you  of  your  duty,  nor  my  voice  to  arouse  you  to  do 
it,  nor  my  words  of  cheer  to  encourage  you  onward 
in  the  good  work.  Nor  is  it  only  because  others 
will  be  there  to  stir  you  up  to  action,  that  you  need 
no  word  from  me.  Not  merely  because  Collins  will 
be  with  you,  and  Douglas— a  brand  plucked  from 
the  burning— and  the  veteran  Hopper.  That  these 
are  to  be  present  I  am  glad  to  hear.  That  they  will 
help  to  pour  into  your  souls  new  life,  and  awaken 
new  activity,  and  animate  you  with  a  more  devoted 
spirit  of  self-denial,  and  quicken  your  zeal  and  in- 
spire you  with  a  greater  energy  and  perseverance,  I 
rejoice  to  believe.  Collins,  with  his  vehement  and 
scorching  rebukes,  may  make  pro-slavery  writhe, 
may  startle  the  indifferent,  and  goad  the  indolent  to 
action  ;  with  his  spirit-kindling  battle-cry  may  give 
increased  alacrity  to  those  whrt  have  risen  and  gird- 
ed them  for  the    moral  fight ;  and  with    his  earnest, 


importunate  appeals,  may  reach  the  hearts  and  awak' 
en  the  consciences  of  all.  Douglas,  as  a  living  wit- 
ness of  the  secrets  of  slavery's  prison  house,  may 
speak  that  he  doth  know,  and  testify  that  he  hath 
seen  of  its  cruelties  and  abominations.  He  may  re- 
veal the  foul  hypocrisy  and  daring  blasphemy  of  its 
priestly  defenders  ;  may  show  in  his  sarcastic  imi- 
tations, how,  with  sanctimonious  looks  and  whining 
tones  of  pretended  piety,  they  impiously  charge 
upon  God  the  making  of  one  man  to  be  a  slave,  and 
another  to  be  a  slave  owner  ;  and  how,  with  cool  ef- 
frontery, pointing  to  those  physical  and  mental  dif- 
ferences which  slavery,  and  its  hard  toil  and  en- 
forced ignorance  on  the  one  hand,  and  slaveholding 
luxury  and  pride  on  the  other,  have  wrought,  they 
call  them  tokens  of  His  design,  that  one  should 
serve  and  the  other  command  ;  proofs  of  His  wisdom 
and  goodness  in  fitting  each  for  the  lot  assigned 
him.  And  the  tried  old  veteran,  with  his  undimmed 
eye  and  unabated  natural  strength,  his  resolute  look, 
and  calm,  determined  manner,  before  which  the 
blustering  kidnapper  and  the  self-important  oppres- 
sor have  so  often  quailed  : — with  his  tales  of  oppres- 
sion baffled,  and  freedom  gained  by  many  a  flying 
bondman  ;  with  the  scars  of  a  hundred  battles,  and 
the  wreaths  of  a  hundred  victories,  in  this  glorious 
warfare  ;  with  his  example  of  a  half  a  century's 
active  service  in  the  holy  cause,  and  his  still  faith- 
ful adherence  to  it  through  evil  as  well  as  good  re- 
port, and  in  the  face  of  opposition  as  bitter  as  secta- 
rian bigotry  can  stir  up — may  show  that  persecution 
cannot  bow  the  head  which  seventy  winters  could 
not  blanch,  nor  the  terror  of  excommunication  chill 
the  heart  in  which  age  could  not  freeze  the  kindly  flow 
of  warm  philanthropy.  But  it  was  not  the  remem- 
brance of  these  which  led  me  to  say  you  need  no 
voice  of  mine  to  summon  you  to  duty.  The  voice 
which  calls  you  is  louder  than  ever  swelled  up  from 
human  lips.  It  is  pouring  ever  its  thrilling  tones 
into  your  ears,  and  into  your  souls — from  the  cotton 
field,  from  the  rice  swamp,  from  the  sugar  planta- 
tion, from  the  man-market  of  your  nation's  capital, 
from  the  desolate  huts  of  the  bereaved — bereaved  by 
a  stroke  more  terrible  than  death, — from  the  slave- 
ship's  hold,  and  from  the  dusty  highway,  where 
chained  coffles  drag  wearily  along  their  mournful 
march.  It  speaks  in  the  clank  of  fetters,  the  crack 
of  brandished  whips,  and  the  harsh  words  and  angry 
oaths  of  drivers  and  overseers.  It  rings  out  from  the 
auction  hammer  as  it  falls  to  sunder  human  hearts, 
and  is  heard  in  the  auctioneer's  call,  "  tcho  bids" 
for  imbrutcd  manhood.  All  sounds  of  wo  blend  in 
that  mighty  voice  ; — all  sighs  of  sorrow  heaved  by 
broken  hearts  ;  all  cries  of  anguish  in  its  many 
notes,  from  the  infant's  scream  and  mother's  pierc- 
ing shriek,  as  they  are  rudely  torn  apart,  to  that 
deep  groan  which  speaks  the  strong  man's  agony  at 
the  loss  of  loved  ones  dearer  than  his  life  ;  whatever 
tells  the  still  night  air  and  the  watching  stars   of 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


71 


griefs  which  may  not  be  spoken  in  the  ear  of  man 
lest  falling  lashes  should  smother  their  attempted 
utterance  ;  all  tones  of  wild  despair,  all  muttered 
curses  and  half  breathed  prayers  to  God  for  ven- 
geance ;  every  low  whisper,  passing  round  dark  cir- 
cles of  midniglit  plotters  in  the  forest's  gloom,  ri- 
pening their  schemes  of  flight,  or  bloody  retribu- 
tion ;  all  aspirations  of  that  hope  which  gives  the 
fugitive  strength  to  his  toil-worn  limbs,  courage  to 
his  fainting  soul,  speed  to  his  flying  steps  ;  the 
stealthy  foot-fall  through  slumbering  villages  or 
towns  at  midnight,  and  the  rustle  of  dry  leaves  in 
solitary  wood-paths ;  the  bloodhound's  bay,  the  rifle's 
sharp  crack,  and  whizzing  of  the  ball,  the  shout  of 
savage  exultation  which  hails  its  deadly  aim,  the 
bubbling  rush  of  its  victim's  life  stream  from  the 
>*  ■  fatal  wound  ;  all  mingle  in  the  ceaseless  cry  which 
bids  you  '<  up  to  the  rescue."  In  the  lament,  too,  of 
darkened  minds  and  benighted  souls,  chained  in  ig- 
norance by  statute  prohibitions,  and  doomed  to  hea- 
thenism by  the  usages  of"  a  Chrisfain  people,  you 
hear  the  emphatic  call  for  help.  The  enslaved  con- 
sciences of  millions,  clanking  their  spiritual  shac- 
kles, and  demanding  a  release  from  their  galling 
weight,  appeal  to  your  consciences,  making  them 
your  accusers  if  you  put  forth  no  effort  for  their  dis- 
enthralment.  Sounds  not  that  appeal  in  your  ears 
like  the  death  groan  of  starving  souls,  perishing  for 
lack  of  that  bread  of  life  which  should  nourish  them  ? 
The  whole  South  land  is  lifting  up  its  voice ;  not 
from  living  things  alone,  but  the  very  stones  are 
crying  out  of  the  walls  of  its  dilapidated  mansions 
and  deserted  sanctuaries,  "wo  to  him  that  buildeth 
a  town  with  blood,  and  establisheth  a  city  with  ini- 
quity;" and  the  beam  out  of  the  timber  is  answering 
them,  accusing  slavery  of  their  too  early  decay  and 
ruin  ;  and  calling  on  you  as  sharers  in  the  common 
interest  of  the  whole  country,  to  drive  out  the  abomi- 
nation which  maketh  desolate,  and  bring  in  that 
builder  of  old  waste  places,  that  upraiser  of  the 
foundations  of  many  generations,  free  industry. 
The  once  fruitful  fields,  now  slavery-cursed  with 
barrenness  ;  the  pine  woods  over-growing  olden  cul- 
tivations and  echoing  in  their  gloomy  depths  the 
howl  of  "  wolves  returned  after  the  lapse  of  a  cen- 
tury," send  up  their  call  with  all  the  earnestness  of 
dying  prosperity  gasping  hard  for  breath,  and  pray- 
ing for  renewed  life.  Nor  from  the  South  alone  rises 
up  the  call  to  anti-slavery  effort.  From  manj'  a  fly- 
ing captive,  wandering  over  the  wide  north,  seeking 
shelter  in  the  shadow  of  our  liberty  tree  on  our 
boasted  free  soil,  and  finding  that  the  hand  of  "  com 
promise"  has  pruned  away  its  branches,  till  oppres- 
sion's sun-stroke  can  smite  him  even  here,  and 
wither  his  blooming  hopes  ;  is  pealing  out  a  call  for 
protection  and  deliverance ; 

"  While  from  the  dark  Canadian  woods, 
The  loud  reply  comes  thundering  out, 
Above  Niaijara's  boiling  floods, 
The  rejfued  bondman's  triumph  shout;" 


not  unmingled  with  tones  of  sorrow  and  accents  of 
earnest  entreaty,  which  urge  us,  if  we  can  do  no 
more,  at  least  to  cast  up  a  safe  highwaj'  from  the 
land  of  republican  bondage  to  the  home  of  freedom 
under  a  monarch's  protecting  rule.  And  what  tu- 
multuous acclaim,  even  while  you  are  yet  assembled, 
swells  up  from  "  the  freed  Antilles."  like  the  roar 
of  pent-up  seas  bursting  their  rocky  barriers ;  and 
tells  a  nation  joy  at  the  returning  aniversary  of  its 
emancipation  ?  What  is  it  but  another  tone  of  that 
same  voice,  which  bids  you  for  very  shame  to  suf- 
fer no  longer  in  quiet  "  the  free  United  States  to 
cherish  the  slavery  which  a  king  has  abolished?" — 
What  are  the  taunts  flung  at  you  from  beyond  the 
waters;  from  crowned  despots  and  their  minions, 
scorning  a  slaveholding  republicanism  ;  from  pagans 
at  their  idol  shrines,  sneering  at  a  heathenizing 
Christianity  ?  What,  but  variations  of  the  same 
unceasing  voice,  which  will  still  roar,  and  shriek, 
and  groan,  and  sigh,  and  wail,  and  entreat,  and  ac- 
cuse, and  condemn,  till  your  brother's  blood  no  lon- 
ger gives  it  its  startling  tones  and  unearthly  power  ? 
The  earth  which  drunk  that  blood — which  drinks  it 
still,  warm-dripping  from  the  lash— sends  up  con- 
tinually its  accusing  cry  to  heaven.  The  heaven 
which  looked  on  with  astonishment,  hurls  back  its 
response  from  the  black  thunder-cloud,  and  writes  it 
with  quivering  lightnings  all  over  its  broad  expanse. 
The  rivers,  discolored  with  the  crimson  stain,  sweep 
oceanward  with  indignant  rush,  pouring  out  their 
complaints  in  every  ripple  of  the  current  as  they 
dash  along.  The  ocean  flings  them  back  with  its 
loud  voice  of  many  waters,  as  his  foam-crested  bil- 
lows tumble  in  upon  the  trembling  shore.  And  He 
that  sitteth  on  the  circle  of  the  heavens,  that  spread 
abroad  the  earth  and  stretched  the  clouds  above  it 
like  the  curtains  of  a  tent,  and  channelled  it  with 
river  courses,  and  scooped  out  the  hollows  for  the 
seas,  that  makes  them  all  the  instruments  of  his 
will,  when,  by  terrible  things  in  righteousness,  he 
would  vindicate  the  honor  of  his  violated  laws,  and 
avenge  the  cause  of  the  helpless  and  injured  poor, 
he  is  shaping  into  articulate  sounds  those  thunders 
above,  and  that  voice  of  the  waters  below,  and,  as 
it  were,  bending  those  lightning  flashes  into  forms 
and  characters  which  may  be  read — pealing  upon 
your  ears  with  the  one,  and  blazing  upon  your  daz- 
zling eyes  with  the  other,  "  Execute  judgment  in 
the  morning,  and  deliver  him  that  is  spoiled  out  of 
the  hand  of  the  oppressor,  lest  my  fury  go  out  like 
fire,  and  burn  that  none  can  quench  it,  because  of  the 
evil  of  your  doings."  And  I  rejoice  to  know  that 
you  are  not  utterly  unheedful  of  the  call,  but  have 
banded  yourselves  together  to  work,  by  your  united 
zeal  and  energy,  the  required  deliverance ;  not  by 
retaliating  upon  the  evil-doer  the  evil  he  has  done ; 
not  by  washing  out  with  his  blood  the  blood-stain 
with  which  he  has  polluted  the  land  ;  not  by  <'  phy 
Bical  resistance,  the  marshalling  in  arms,  the  hostile 


73 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


encounter;"  but  by  "  the  opposition  of  moral  puri- 
ty to  moral    corruption,  the  destruction  of  error  by 
the  potency  of  truth,  the  overthrow  of  prejudice  by 
the  power  of  love,  the  abolition   of  slavery  by  the 
spirit  of  repentance  :"  thus  conferring  a  blessing  at 
once  upon  the  oppressor  and  his  victim.    Not  in  vain 
have  you  enlisted  in  this  holy  war  ;  holy,  no  less 
because  of  its  weapons,  than  of  its  objects.     Not  in 
vain  have  you  devoted  your  strength  to  this  labor  of 
love,  spending  it  for  the  good  of  those  from  whom 
yon  look  for  no  recompense.     Not  in  vain  have  you 
encountered   reproach  and  persecution — braved   the 
wrath  of  the  mob,  suffered  the  loss  of  property  by 
the  outbreaks  of  lawless  violence,  endured  personal 
indignities,  and  faced  personal  dangers.    Not  in  vain, 
even  if  you  could  as  yet  see  no  fruits  of  your  labor, 
so  far  as  its  direct  purpose  is  concerned;  even  if  no 
fetter  had  yet  been  broken,  no  blessing  of  them  that 
were  ready  to  perish,  but  are  now  set  in  safety  from 
the  reach  of  the  destroyer,  had  yet  come  upon  you. 
Your  own  consciousness  bears  witness  that  he,  in 
whose  service  you  are  engaged,  is  no  exactor  of  un- 
requited toil  ;  that  he  does  not  even  wait  the  finish- 
ing of    the  day's  work,  before  he  begins  the  pay- 
ment of  its  wages.     You  have  tasted  the  reward  in 
the  inward  peace  which  obedience  has  produced  ;  in 
the  sweet  satisfaction  which  Hows  from  the  exercise 
of  kindly  emotions,  and  the  sacrifice  of  present  per- 
sonal indulgence  and  ease  to  the  toils  of  benevolence, 
and  in  the  pleasures  of  social  intercouse,  and  a  feel- 
ing of  brotherly  union  in  a  common  cause,  height- 
ened by  the  consideration  of  the  nobleness  of  that 
cause  ;  purified  by  the  disinterestedness  of  that  feel- 
ing.    But  this  has  not  been  your  only  reward.    You 
have  seen  the  work  of  the  Lord  prospering  in  your 
hands.     He  who  sows  the  seed  expects  to  wait  long 
and  patiently   for  the    harvest,  before  its   waving 
wealth   shall    cover   the   furrows,   or    its   ripened 
sheaves  shall  crowd  the  barns.     Yet,  in  your  case 
the  reaper  seems  already  treading  on  the  sower's 
heel,  and  the  harvest  of  the  last  sown  furrow  sup- 
plies the  seed  for  the  next.     A  Birney,  a  Nelson,  a 
Brisbane,  and  a  Thome,  are  not  the  only  trophies  of 
past  success,  nor  the  only  auxiliaries  of  future  effort. 
Not  the  converted  slaveholder  alone,  but  the  libera- 
ted slave  also,  is  at  once  the  witness  of  what  has 
been  done,  and  the  helper  in  what  is  yet  to  do. — 
Where,  but  for  your  efforts,  would  have  been  some 
of  the  voices  which  are  now  pleading,  with  the  ear- 
nest eloquence  of  simple  nature,  for  the  deliverance 
of  the  enslaved,   and  moving  the  whole  land  with 
their  strong   appeals  ?     To   name  no  other — would 
Douglas  be  now  rousing  the  country  to  a  state  of 
healthy  agitation ;  would  he  be  going  from  city  to 
city,  and  town  to  town,  and  village  to  village,  with 
his  story  of  the  captive's  wrongs  ;  awakening  sym- 
pathy, enkindling  zeal,  and  enlisting  effort— if  north- 
ern abolitionists  had  not  prepared  the  public  mind  to 
receive  him,  and  formed  a  pviblic  sentiment  which 


shields  him  from  the  perils  he  must  else  have  braved 
by  such  a  course  ?  could  he  even  have  attempted  it  ? 
If  his  labors  are  producing  abundant  fruit,  it  is  be- 
cause yours  have  broken  and  mellowed  to  some  de- 
gree the  soil,  and  diffused  a  more  genial  tempera- 
ture throughout  the  moral  atmosphere. 

But  I  meant  not  to  speak  so  long  of  what  has 
been.  It  behooves  us,  rather,  forgetting  the  things 
which  are  behind,  and  reaching  forth  unto  those 
which  are  before,  to  press  toward  the  mark  for  the 
prize  of  our  high  calling.  The  little  which  has  been 
done,  may  be  hastily  glanced  at  now  and  then,  as 
encouragement  to  new  exertion,  but  must  not  be 
dwelt  upon  as  if  it  were  the  fulfilment  of  our  duty  ; 
must  not  be  permitted  to  hide  from  our  eyes  the 
vastly  more  which  yet  lies  unaccomplished  before 
us.  And  with  you  I  am  confident  it  will  not.  You 
have  not  just  put  on  the  harness  of  this  Christian 
warfare,  to  boast  yourseves  as  he  that  putteth  it  off, 
after  the  battle  has  been  fought  and  the  victory  won. 
•  •  t  »  •  * 

There  is  another  subject  on  which  my  mind  has 
dwelt  much,  and  which  I  hope  will  claim  some 
share  of  your  attention.  I  mean  the  duty  toward 
our  brcthern  flying  from  oppression,  which  grows 
out  of  the  recent  decision  of  the  Supreme  Court. — 
That  we  are  verily  guilty  concerning  our  brother,  so 
long  as  we  consent  to  aid  in  re-enslaving  him  if  he 
attempts  to  escape — so  long  as  we  leave  unused  any 
rightful  means  in  our  power  to  assist  his  self-deliv- 
erance, I  need  not  so  say  to  such  an  assembly  as 
this  letter  is  designed  for.  But  what  ought  we  to 
do,  v.'hat  can  we  do  with  the  most  effect,  for  the  at- 
tainment of  our  fixed  purpose  ?  That  we  will  never 
lift  a  finger  to  help  the  kidnapper,  however  strong 
the  authority  of  statute,  or  constitution,  or  judicial 
decision  with  which  he  is  clothed,  I  take  for  granted 
is  our  luiafiimoiis,  u7?f//'so-(/jse(/ determination.  That 
we  will  do  our  best,  by  all  means  which  the  moral 
law  condemns  not,  to  baffle  him  and  save  the  prey 
from  his  talons,  I  trust  we  are  equally  well  agreed 
on,  and  equally  open  in  avowing.  Now,  as  we 
have  the  highest  judicial  authority  of  the  nation  for 
the  doctrine  that  the  federal  government  cannot  re- 
quire State  officers  to  enforce  its  decrees,  and  that 
the  several  States  may  forbid  all  giving  of  aid  by 
their  official  agents,  to  the  re-capture  of  fugitive 
slaves,  it  seems  to  me  that  every  free  State  owes  it 
to  its  own  character,  to  justice,  to  humanity,  to  pass 
an  act  at  the  earliest  possible  opportunity,  imposing 
such  prohibition  ;  and  that  abolitionists  everywhere 
ought  to  bestir  themselves  in  this  matter,  and  by  pe. 
titions,  and  their  personal  influence,  where  they  have 
any,  with  their  representatives,  and  by  whatever 
means  are  proper  and  lawful,  endeavor  to  bring  about 
so  desirable  an  end.  The  South  should  be  made  to 
know  that  we  are  not  only  determined  to  hinder,  as 
far  as  we  can,  her  attempts  to  make  effective  for  in- 
justice a  compromise  which  ought  never  to  have 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


73 


been  made  ;  and  which,  when  made,  being  immoral 
in  its  nature,  is  not  binding,  and  cannot  be,  and  must 
ever  be  "  more  honored  in  the  breach  than  the  ob- 
servance;" but  that  we  are  resolved  to  get  all  we 
can  to  help  us,  and  to  make  the  whole  policy  of  the 
North,  so  far  as  we  tan  mould  it,  a  barrier  against 
the  re-enslavement  of  the  self-emancipated  bondman, 
who  seeks  a  shelter  within  our  borders. 

But  I  will  trespass  on  your  time  and  patience  no 
longer.  I  could  not  feel  willing  to  let  your  gather- 
ing pass  away  without  a  greeting  from  your  absent 
brother,  and  his  fervently  uttered  God-speed  to  your 
exertions ;  and,  having  begun  to  talk,  I  have  been 
borne  along  beyond  my  original  purpose,  till  now,  if 
I  close  not  speedily,  there  will  be  mo  room  in  the 
sheet  for  signature  or  superscription.  Blame  me  not, 
beloved  friends  and  fellow-laborers,  that  I  seem  thus 
reluctant  to  part  with  you.  The  memory  of  our  toils 
and  trials  together,  the  thought  of  all  that  we  have 
enjoyed  in  common,  the  remembrance  of  the  abun- 
dant kindness  and  generous  hospitality  I  have  so  often 
received  at  your  hands,  while  laboring  with  you  in 
this  good  work,  and  of  the  warm  personal  friendship, 
the  confidence  and  brotherly  affection  with  which  you 
have  honored  and  cheered  me, — these  come  throng- 
ing upon  me,  as  I  turn  to  take  my  leave,  and  swell 
my  bosom  with  emotions,  which  you  may  conceive 
but  I  cannot  utter.  Farewell,  brethren  and  sisters. 
May  He  whose  wisdom  is  profitable  to  direct,  and 
whose  arm  is  strong  to  defend  and  mighty  to  save, 
be  with  you  in  all  your  deliberations  ;  give  prudence 
to  your  counsels,  vigor  to  your  measures,  success  to 
your  enterprise.  May  he  guide  you  in  life  and  sus- 
tain you  in  death,  and  reward  you  at  last  with  the 
welcome  invitation,  '•  Well  done,  good  and  faithful 
servants,  enter  ye  into  the  joy  of  your  Lord." 

TO  THE  UNSATISFIED. 

BY  HARRIET  WINSLOW- 

Why  thus  longing,  why  for  ever  sighing 

For  the  far-off,  unattained  and  dim  ; 
While  the  beautiful,  all  around  thee  lying, 

Offers  up  its  low  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Would'st  thou  listen  to  it?  gentle  teaching. 
All  thy  restless  yearning  it  would  still ; 

Leaf  and  flower,  and  laden  bee  are  preaching, 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  can'st  throw. 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 

To  some  little  world,  through  weal  and  wo  ; 

If  no  dear  eye  thy  fond  love  can  brighten — 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own  ; 

If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  can'st  lighten, 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 
10 


Not  by  deeds  that  win  the  world's  applauses  ; 

Not  by  works  that  give  thee  world-renown  ; 
Nor  by  martyrdom,  or  vaunted  crosses, 

Can'st  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely. 
Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give  ; 

Thou  wilt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only, 
And  truly  loving,  thou  cmfst  truly  live. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning. 
When  all  nature  hails  the  lord  of  light, 

And  his  smile,  the  mountain-tops  adorning, 
Robes  yon  fragrant  fields  in  radiance  bright? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  and  forest, 
Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine  ; 

But  with  fervent  love,  if  thou  adorest. 

Thou  art  wealthier — all  the  world  is  thine  ! 

Yet,  if  through  earth's  wide  domains  thou  revest. 
Sighing  that  they  are  not  thine  alone, 

Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself  thou  lovest. 
And  their  beauty,  and  thy  wealth  are  gone. 

Nature  wears  the  color  of  the  spirit ; 

Sweetly  to  her  worshipper  she  sings  ; 
All  the  glow,  the  grace  she  doth  inherit, 

Round  her  trusting  child,  she  fondly  flings. 


THE  HAPPY  LIFE. 

BY    SIR    HENRY    WOTTON. 

How  happy  is  he  born  or  taught. 
That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 

Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  highest  skill : 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are ; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death; 
Not  tied  unto  the  world  with  care 

Of  princes'  ear  or  vulgar  breath ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed ; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat : 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 

Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great : 

Who  envies  none  whom  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice  :  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  with  praise ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good : 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  well  chosen  book  or  friend. 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  hands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


74 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


LIFE'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

BY  ROBERT  NICOLL. 

Infant,  I  envy  thee 
Thy  seraph  smile— the  soul  without  a  stain  ; 
Angles  around  thee  hover  in  thy  glee, 

A  look  of  love  to  gain  I 

Thy  paradise  is  made 
Upon  thy  mother's  bosom,  and  her  voice 
Is  music  rich  as  that  by  spirits  shed 

When  blessed  things  rejoice  ! 

Bright  are  the  opening  flowers — 
Ay,  bright  as  thou,  sweet  babe,  and  innocent. 
They  bud  and  bloom  ;  and  straight  their  infant  hours, 

Like  thine,  are  done  and  spent ! 

Boy  !  infancy  is  o'er — 
Go  with  thy  playmates  to  the  grassy  lea, 
Let  thy  bright  eye  with  yon  fair  laverock  soar, 

And  blithe  and  happy  be  ! 

Go,  crow  thy  cuckoo  notes, 
Till  all  the  green-wood  alleys  loud  shall  ring; 
Go  listen  to  the  thousand  tuneful  throats 

That  'mong  the  branches  sing ! 

I  would  not  sadden  thee. 
Nor  wash  the  rose  upon  thy  cheek  with  tears  : 
Go  while  thine  eyes  are  bright— unbend  thy  knees  ; 

Forget  all  cares  and  fears  ! 

Youth  !  is  thy  boyhood  gone  ? 
The  fever  hour  of  life  at  length  has  come, 
And  passion  sits  in  reason's  golden  throne, 

While  sorrow's  voice  is  dumb  ! 

Be  glad  !  it  is  thy  hour 
Of  love  ungruding— faith  without  reserve — 
And  from  the  right,  ill  hath  not  yet  the  power 

To  make  thy  footsteps  swerve  1 

Now  is  thy  time  to  know 
How  much  of  trusting  goodness  lives  on  earth. 
And  rich  in  pure  sincerity  to  go 

Rejoicing  in  thy  birth  1 

Youth's  sunshine  unto  thee — 
Love  first  and  dearest — has  unveiled  her  face. 
And  thou  hast  sat  beneath  the  tiysting  tree 

In  love's  first  fond  embrace  I 

Enjoy  thy  happy  dream, 
For  life  hath  not  another  such  to  give  ; 
The  stream  is  flowing — love's  enchanted  stream  — 

Live,  happy  dreamer,  live  I 

Though  sorrow  dwelleth  here, 
And  falsehood  and  impurity  and  sin. 
The  light  of  love,  the  gloom  of  earth  to  cheer, 

Comes  sweetly,  sweetly  in  ! 


'Tis  o'er  ! — thou  art  a  man  ' — 
The  struggle  and  the  tempest  both  begin 
Where  he  who  faints  must  fall — he  fight  who  can, 

A  victory  to  win  ! 

Go,  cleanse  thy  heart,  and  fill 
Thy  soul  with  love  and  goodness  :  let  it  be 
Like  yonder  lake,  so  holy,  calm,  and  still ; 

So  full  of  purity ! 

This  is  thy  task  on  earth — 
This  is  thy  eager   manhood's  proudest  goal ; 
To  cast  all  meanness  and  world-worship  forth  ; 

And  thus  exalt  the  soul! 

'Tis  manhood  makes  the  man 
A  high-souled  freeman  or  a  fettered  slave, 
The  mind  a  temple  fit  for  God  to  span. 

Or  a  dark  dungeon  grave ! 


THE  HAPPY  HOME. 

I  love  the  hearth  where  evening  brings 

Her  loved  ones  from  their  daily  tasks, 
Where  virtue  spreads  her  spotless  wings. 

And  vice,  foul  serpent,  never  basks  ; 
Where  sweetly  rings  upon  the  ear 

The  blooming  daughter's  gentle  song. 
Like  heavenly  music  whisper'd  near. 

While  thrilling  hearts  the  notes  prolong 

For  there  the  father  sits  in  joy. 

And  there  the  cheerful  mother  smiles. 
And  there  the  laughter-loving  boy, 

With  sportive  tricks  the  eye  beguiles ; 
And  love,  beyond  what  worldlings  know, 

Like  sunlight  on  the  purest  foam. 
Descends,  and  with  its  cheering  glow 

Lights  up  the  Christian's  happy  home. 

Contentment  spreads  her  holy  calm 

Around  her  resting  place  so  bright, 
And  gloomy  sorrow  finds  a  balm. 

In  gazing  at  so  fair  a  sight; 
The  world's  cold  selfishness  departs, 

And  discord  rears  its  front  no  more, 
There  pity's  pearly  tear  drop  starts. 

And  charity  attends  the  door. 

No  biting  scandal,  fresh  from  hell, 

Grates  on  the  ear,  or  scalds  the  tongue  ; 
There  kind  remembrance  loves  to  dwell. 

And  virtue's  meed  is  sweetly  sung : 
And  human  nature  soars  on  high, 

Where  heavenly  spirits  love  to  roam. 
And  vice,  as  stalks  it  rudely  by. 

Admires  the  Christian's  happy  home. 

Oft  have  I  join'd  the  lovely  ones, 

Around  the  bright  and  cheerful  hearth. 


VOICES     OF    THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


75 


With  father,  mother,  daughters,  sons, 
'J'he  brightest  jewels  of  the  earth ; 

And  while  the  world  grew  dark  around, 
And  fashion  call'dher  senseless  throng, 

I've  fancied  it  was  holy  ground, 

And  that  fair  girl's  a  seraph's  song. 

And  swift  as  circles  fade  away 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
VVhen  pebbles  toss'd  by  boys  at  play 

Disturb  its  still  and  glassy  sleep  ; 
The  hours  have  sped  in  pure  delight, 

And  wand'ring  feer  forgot  to  roam. 
While  waved  the  banners  of  the  night 

Above  the  Christian's  happy  home. 

The  rose  that  blooms  in  Sharon's  vale, 

And  scents  the  purple  morning's  breath, 
May  in  the  shades  of  evening  fail, 

And  bend  its  crimson  head  in  death ; 
And  earth's  bright  ones  amid  the  tomb 

May,  like  the  blushing  rose,  decay  ; 
But  still  the  mind,  the  mind  shall  bloom, 

When  time  and  nature  fade  away. 

And  there  amid  a  holier  sphere, 

Where  the  arch-angel  bows  in  awe. 
Where  sits  the  King  of  Glory  near. 

To  execute  his  perfect  law. 
The  ransom'd  of  the  earth,  with  joy, 

Shall  in  their  robes  of  beauty  come. 
And  find  a  rest  without  alloy. 

Amid  the  Christian'.s  happy  home  I 


CHILDHOOD. 

He  must  be  incorrigibly  unamiable.  who  is  not  a 
little  improved  by  becoming  a  father.  Some  there 
are,  however,  who  know  not  how  to  appreciate  the 
blessings  with  which  Providence  has  filled  their 
quiver  ;  who  receive  with  coldness  a  son's  greeting 
or  a  daughter's  kiss  ;  who  have  principle  enough 
properly  to  feed  and  clothe,  and  educate  their  chil- 
dren, to  labor  for  their  support  and  provision,  but 
possess  not  the  affection  which  turns  duty  into  de- 
light;  who  are  surrounded  with  blossoms,  but  know 
not  the  art  of  extracting  their  exquisite  sweets. — 
How  diflferent  is  the  effect  of  true  parental  love, 
where  nature,  duty,  habit  and  feeling  combine  to 
constitute  an  affection  the  purest,  the  deepest  and 
the  strongest,  the  most  enduring,  the  least  exacting 
of  any  of  which  the  human  heart  is  capable  ! 

The  selfish  bachelor  may  shudder,  when  he  thinks 
of  the  consequences  of  a  family  ;  he  may  picture  to 
himself  littered  rooms,  and  injured  furniture,  ima- 
gine the  noise  and  confusion,  the  expense  and  the 
cares,  from  which  he  is  luckily  free  ;  hug  himnelf  in 
his  solitude,  and  pity  his  unfortunate  neighbour, who 


has  half  a  dozen  squalling  children  to  torment  and 
impoverish  him. 

The  unfortunate  neighbour,  however,  returns  the 
compliment  with  interest,  sighs  over  the  loneliness 
of  the  wealthy  bachelor,  and  can  never  see,  without 
feelings  of  regret,  rooms  where  no  stray  plaything 
tells  of  the  occasional  presence  of  a  child,  gardens 
where  no  tiny  foot-mark  reminds  him  of  his  trea- 
sures at  home.  He  has  listened  to  his  heart,  and 
learned  from  it  a  precious  secret;  he  knows  how  to 
convert  noise  into  harmony,  expense  into  self-grati- 
fication, and  trouble  into  amusement ;  and  he  reaps 
in  one  day's  intercouse  with  his  family,  a  harvest  of 
love  and  enjoyment  rich  enough  to  repay  years  of 
toil  and  care.  He  listens  eagerly  on  his  threshold 
for  the  boisterous  greeting  he  is  sure  to  receive,  feels 
refreshed  by  the  mere  pattering  sound  of  the  dar- 
lings' feet,  as  they  hurry  to  receive  his  kiss,  and 
cures,  by  a  noisy  game  at  romps,  the  weariness  and 
headache  which  he  gained  in  his  intercourse  with 
men. 

But  it  is  not  only  to  their  parents  and  near  con- 
nexions, that  children  are  interesting  and  delightful ; 
they  are  general  favourites,  and  their  caresses  are 
slighted  by  none  but  the  strange,  the  aflfected,  or  the 
morose.  I  have,  indeed,  heard  a  fine  lady  declare 
that  she  preferred  a  puppy  or  a  kitten  to  a  child ;  and 
I  wondered  she  had  not  sense  enough  to  conceal  her 
want  of  womanly  feeling;  and  I  know  another  fair 
simpleton,  who  considers  it  beneath  her  to  notice  those 
from  whom  no  intellectual  improvement  can  be  de- 
rived, forgetting  that  we  have  hearts  to  cultivate  as 
well  as  heads.  But  these  are  extraordinary  excep- 
tions to  general  rules,  as  uncommon  and  disgusting 
as  a  beard  on  a  lady's  chin,  or  a  pipe  in  her  mouth. 

Even  men  may  condescend  to  sport  with  children 
without  fear  of  contempt ;  and  for  those  who  like 
to  shelter  themselves  under  authority,  and  cannot 
venture  to  be  wise  and  happy  their  own  way,  we 
have  plenty  of  splendid  examples,  ancient  and  mod- 
ern, living  and  dead,  to  adduce,  which  may  sanction 
a  love  of  these  pigmy  playthings.  Statesmen  have 
romped  with  them,  orators  told  them  stories,  con- 
querors submitted  to  their  blows,  judges,  divines 
and  philosophers  listended  to  their  prattle,  and  join- 
ed in  their  sports. 

Spoiled  children  are,  however,  excepted  from  this 
partiality ;  every  one  joins  in  visiting  the  faults  of 
others  upon  their  heads,  and  hating  these  unfortunate 
victims  of  their  parents'  folly.  They  must  be  brib- 
ed to  good  behaviour,  like  many  of  their  elders  ;  they 
insist  upon  fingering  your  watch,  and  spoiling  what 
they  do  not  understand,  like  numbers  of  the  patrons 
of  literature  and  the  arts  ;  they  will  sometimes  cry 
for  the  moon,  as  absurdly  as  Alexander  for  more 
worlds  ;  and  when  they  are  angry,  they  have  no 
mercy  for  cups  and  saucers.  They  are  as  unreasona- 
ble, impatient,  selfish,  exacting  and  whimsical,  as 
grown-up  men  and  women,  and  only  want  the  var- 


76 


VOICES      OF     THE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


nish  of  politeness  and  mask  of  hypocrisy  to  complete 
the  likeness. 

Another  description  of  children,  deservedly  un- 
popular, is  the  over-educated  and  supor-exceilent. — 
who  despise  dolls  and,  drums,  and,  read)'  only  for  in- 
struction, have  no  wish  for  a  holiday,  no  fancy  for  a 
fairy  tale.  They  appear  to  have  a  natural  taste  for 
pedantry  and  precision ;  their  wisdom  never  indul- 
ges in  a  nap,  at  least  before  company  ;  they  have 
learned  the  Pestalozzi  system  and  weary  you  with 
questions ;  they  require  you  to  prove  every  thing 
you  assert,  and  are  always  on  the  watch  to  detect  you 
in  a  verbal  inaccuracy,  or  a  slight  mistake  in  a  date. 
But,  notwithstanding  the  infinite  pains  taken  to 
spoil  nature's  lovely  works,  there  is  a  principle  of  re- 
sistance, which  allows  of  only  partial  success  ;  and 
numbers  of  sweet  children  exist,  to  delight,  and 
soothe,  and  divert  us,  when  we  are  wearied  or  fret- 
ted by  grown-up  people,  and  to  justify  all  that  hns 
been  said  or  written  of  the  charms  of  childhood. 
Perhaps  only  women,  their  natural  nurses  and  faith- 
ful protectresses,  can  thoroughly  appreciate  the  at- 
tractions of  the  first  few  months  of  human  existence. 
The  recumbent  position,  the  fragile  limbs,  the  leth- 
argic tastes,  and  ungrateful  indifference  to  notice,  of 
a  very  young  infant,  render  it  uninteresting  to  most 
gentlemen,  except  its  father;  and  he  is  generally 
afraid  to  touch  it,  for  fear  of  breaking  its  neck.  But 
even  in  this  state,  mothers,  grandmothers,  aunts  and 
nurses  assure  you,  that  strong  indications  of  sense 
and  genius  may  be  discerned  in  the  little  animal  ; 
and  I  have  known  a  clatter  of  surprise  and  joy  ex- 
cited through  a  whole  family,  and  matter  afforded 
for  twenty  long  letters  and  innumerable  animated 
conversations,  by  some  marvellous  demonstration 
of  intellect  in  a  creature  in  long  clothes,  who  could 
not  hold  its  head  straight. 

But  as  soon  as  the  baby  has  acquired  firmness  and 
liveliness;  as  soon  as  it  smiles  at  a  familiar  face, 
and  stares  at  a  strange  one ;  as  soon  as  it  employs 
its  hands  and  eyes  in  constant  expeditions  of  discov- 
ery, and  crows  and  leaps,  from  the  excess  of  animal 
contentment, — it  becomes  an  object  of  indefinable 
and  powerful  interest,  to  which  all  the  sympathies 
of  our  nature  attach  us — an  object  at  once  of  curiosi- 
ty and  tenderness,  interesting  as  it  is  in  its  helpless- 
ness and  innocence,  doubly  interesting  from  its  pros- 
pects and  destiny ;  interesting  to  a  philosopher, 
doubly  interesting  to  a  Christian. 

Who  has  not  occasionally,  when  fondling  an  in- 
fant, felt  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  mystery  which 
hangs  over  its  fate  ?  Perhaps  we  hold  in  our  arms 
an  angel,  kept  but  for  a  fevv  months  from  the  heaven 
in  which  it  is  to  spend  the  rest  of  an  immortal  exist- 
ence ;  perhaps  we  see  the  germ  of  all  that  is  hide- 
ous and  hateful  in  our  nature.  Thus  looked  and 
thus  sported,  thus  calmly  slumbered  and  sweetly 
smiled  the  monsters  of  our  race  in  their  days  of  in- 
fancy.    Where  are  the  marks  to  distinguish  a  Nero 


from  a  Trajan,  an  Abel  from  a  Cain?  But  it  is  not 
in  this  spirit  that  it  is  either  wise  or  happy  to  con- 
template any  thing.  Better  is  it — when  we  behold 
the  energy  and  animation  of  young  children,  their 
warm  affections,  their  ready,  unsuspicious  confi- 
dence, their  wild,  unwearied  glee,  their  mirth  so  ea- 
sily excited,  their  love  so  easily  won — to  enjoy,  un- 
restrained, the  pleasantness  of  life's  morning;  that 
morning  so  bright  and  joyous,  which  seems  to  "jus- 
tify the  ways  of  God  to  men,"  and  to  teach  us  that 
Nature  intended  us  to  be  happy,  and  usually  gains 
her  end  till  we  are  old  enough  to  discover  how  we 
may  defeat  it. 

Little  girls  are  my  favourites.  Boys,  though  suffi- 
ciently interesting  and  amusing  are  apt  to  be  in- 
fected, as  soon  as  they  assume  the  manly  garb,  with 
a  little  of  that  masculine  violence  and  obstinacy, 
which,  when  they  grow  up,  they  will  call  spirit  and 
firmness  ;  and  they  lose,  earlier  in  life,  that  docility, 
tenderness  and  ignorance  of  evil,  which  are  their 
sisters'  peculiar  charms.  In  all  the  range  of  visible 
creation,  there  is  no  object  to  me  so  attractive  and 
delightful,  as  a  lovely,  intelligent,  gentle  little 
girl  of  eight  or  nine  years  old.  This  is  the  point 
at  which  may  be  witnessed  the  greatest  improvement 
of  intellect  compatible  with  that  lily-like  purity  of 
mind,  to  which  taint  is  incomprehensible,  danger  un- 
suspected, and  which  wants  not  only  the  vocabular- 
lary,  but  the  very  idea  of  sin. 

Even  the  best  and  purest  of  women  would  shrink 
from  displaying  her  heart  to  our  gaze,  while  lovely 
childhood  allows  us  to  read  its  very  thought  and  fan- 
cy. Its  sincerity,  indeed,  is  occasionally  very  in- 
convenient ;  and  let  that  person  be  quite  sure  that 
he  has  nothing  remarkably  odd,  ugly  or  disagreeable 
about  his  appearance,  who  ventures  to  ask  a  child 
what  it  thinks  of  him.  Amidst  the  frowns  and 
blushes  of  the  family,  amidst  a  thousand  efforts  to 
prevent  or  to  drown  the  answer,  truth,  in  all  the 
horrors  of  nakedness,  will  generally  appear  in  the 
surprised  assembly;  and  he  who  has  hitherto  thought, 
in  spite  of  his  mirror,  that  his  eyes  had  merely  a 
slight  and  not  unpleasing  cast,  will  now  learn  for  the 
first  time,  "  that  every  body  says  he  has  a  terrible 
squint." 

I  cannot  approve  of  the  modern  practice  of  dress- 
ing little  girls  in  exact  accordance  with  the  prevail- 
ing fashion,  with  scrupulous  imitation  of  their  el- 
ders. When  I  look  at  a  child.  I  do  not  wish  to  feel 
doubtful  whether  it  is  not  an  unfortunate  dwarf, 
who  is  standing  before  me,  attired  in  a  costume  suit- 
ed to  its  age.  Extreme  simplicity  of  attire,  and  a 
dress  sacred  to  themselves  only,  are  most  fitted  to 
these  "  fresh  female  buds  ;"  and  it  vexes  me  to  see 
them  disguised  in  the  fashions  of  the  day,  or  prac- 
tising the  graces  and  courtesies  of  maturer  life.  Will 
there  not  be  years  enough,  from  thirteen  to  seventy, 
lor  ornamenting  or  disfiguring  the  person  at  the  fiat 
of  French  milliners  ;  for  checking  laughter  and  fore- 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


77 


ing  smiles ;  for  reducing  all  varieties  of  intellect,  all 
gradations  of  feeling,  to  one  unilorm  tint  ?  Is  there 
not  already  a  sufficient  sameness  in  the  aspect  and 
tone  of  polished  life  ?  Oh,  leave  children  as  they 
are,  to  relieve,  by  their  "  wild  freshness,"  our  ele- 
gant insipidity;  leave  their  "hair  loosely  flowing, 
robes  as  free,"  to  refresh  the  eye  that  loves  simpli- 
city; and  leave  their  eagerness,  their  warmth,  their 
unreflecting  sincerity,  their  unschooled  expressions  of 
joy  or  regret,  to  amuse  and  delight  us,  when  we  are 
a  little  tired  by  the  politeness,  the  caution,  the  wis- 
dom and  the  coldness  of  the  grown-up  world. 

Children  may  teach  us  one  blessed,  one  enviable 
art, — the  art  of  being  easily  happy.  Kind  nature 
has  given  to  them  that  useful  power  of  accommoda- 
tion to  circumstances,  which  compensates  for  so 
many  external  disadvantages;  and  it  is  only  by  inju- 
dicious management  that  it  is  lost.  Give  him  but  a 
moderate  portion  of  food  and  kindness,  and  the  pea- 
sant's child  is  happier  than  the  duke's ;  free  from  ar- 
tificial wants,  unsated  by  indulgence,  all  nature  mi- 
nisters to  his  pleasures;  he  can  carve  out  felicity 
from  a  bit  of  hazel  twig,  or  fish  for  it  successfully  in 
a  puddle. 

He  must  have  been  singularly  unfortunate  in  child- 
hood, or  singularly  the  reverse  in  after-life,  who 
does  not  look  back  upon  its  scenes,  its  sports  and 
pleasures,  with  fond  regret.  The  wisest  and  hap- 
piest of  us,  may  occasionally  detect  this  feeling  in 
our  bosoms.  There  is  something  unreasonably  dear  to 
the  man  in  the  recollection  of  the  follies,  the  whims, 
the  petty  cares  and  exaggerated  delights  of  his 
childhood.  Perhaps  he  is  engaged  in  schemes  of 
soaring  ambition;  but  he  fancies,  sometimes,  that 
there  was  once  a  greater  charm  in  flying  a  kite. — 
Perhaps,  after  many  a  hard  lesson,  he  has  acquired  a 
power  of  discernment  and  spirit  of  caution,  which 
defies  deception ;  but  he  now  and  then  wishes  for  the 
boyish  confidence,  which  venerated  every  old  beg- 
gar, and  wept  at  every  tale  of  wo. — N.  M.  Mag. 


THE  DEAD  CHILD. 

BY    WILLIAM    H.    BURLEIGH. 

One  tiny  hand  amid  his  curls  is  lying 

Over  the  blue  veined  temple— and  his  face, 
Pale  as  the  water-lily,  shows  no  trace 
Of  passion  or  of  tears.     The  pang  of  dying 
Left  not  its  record  on  the  beautiful  clay. 
And — but  the  flush  of  life  were  stolen  away- 
Well  might  we  deem  he  slept.     His  ruby  lip, 
Weareth  its  freshness  yet — and  see  !  a  smile 
Lingers  around  his  mouth,  as  all  the  while 
The  spirit  with  the  clay  held  fellowship ! 
And  this  is  death !— his  terrors  laid  aside, 
How  like  a  guardian  angel  doth  he  come 
To  bear  the  sinless  spirit  to  his  home — 
The  sheltering  bosom  of  the  Crucified  ! 


SUMMER  WOODS. 

BY    MARY    HOWITT. 

Come  ye  into  the  summer  woods, 

There  entereth  no  annoy  ; 
All  greenly  wave  the  chesnut  leaves, 

And  the  earth  is  full  of  joy. 

I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  sights 

Of  beauty  you  may  see. 
The  bursts  of  golden  sunshine, 

And  many  a  shady  tree. 

There,  lightly  swung,  in  bowery  glades, 

The  honey-suckles  twine; 
There  blooms  the  rose-red  campion, 

And  the  dark  blue  columbine. 

There  grows  the  four-leaved  plant  "true-love," 

In  some  dusk  woodland  spot  : 
There  grows  the  enchanter's  night  shade, 

And  the  wood  forget-me-not. 

And  many  a  merry  bird  is  there, 

Unscared  by  lawless  men  : 
The  blue-winged  jay,  the  wood-pecker, 

And  the  golden-crested  wren. 

Come  down,  and  ye  shall  see  them  all, 

The  timid  and  the  bold  ; 
For  their  sweet  life  of  pleasantness, 

It  is  not  to  be  told. 

And  far  within  that  summer- wood. 

Among  the  leaves  so  green. 
There  flows  a  little  gurgling  brook, 

The  brightest  e'er  was  seen. 

There  come  the  little  gentle  birds, 

Without  a  fear  of  ill ; 
Down  to  the  murmuring  water's  edge. 

And  freely  drink  their  fill ! 

And  dash  about  and  splash  about. 

The  rnerry  littie  things  ; 
And  look  askance  with  bright  black  eyes. 

And  flirt  their  dripping  wings. 

I've  seen  the  freakish  squirrels  drop 

Down  from  their  leafy  tree. 
The  little  squirrels  with  the  old, — 

Great  joy  it  was  to  me  I 

And  down  unto  the  running  brook, 

I've  seen  them  nimbly  go  ; 
And  the  bright  water  seemed  to  speak 

A  welcome  kind  and  low. 

The  nodding  plants  they  bow  their  heads, 

As  if,  in  heartsoms  cheer, 
They  spake  unto  those  little  things, 

"  'Tis  merry  living  here  !'' 


78 


VOICES     OF     THE     TRUE-HEARTED, 


Oh  how  my  heart  ran  o'er  with  joy  ! 

I  saw  that  all  was  good, 
And  how  we  might  glean  up  delight 

All  round  us,  if  we  would ! 

And  many  a  wood-mouse  dwelleth  there. 

Beneath  the  old-wood  shade, 
And  all  day  long  has  work  to  do, 

Nor  is  of  aught  afraid. 

The  green  shoots  grow  above  their  heads, 

And  roots  so  fresh  and  fine 
Beneath  their  feet,  nor  is  there  strife 

'Mong  them  for  mine  and  thine. 

There  is  enough  for  every  one, 

And  they  lovingly  agree; 
We  might  learn  a  lesson,  all  of  us, 

Beneath  the  green- wood  tree ! 


THE  POOR  VOTER'S  SONG. 

They  knew  that  I  was  poor. 

And  they  thought  that  I  was  base  ; 
They  thought  that  I'd  endure 

To  be  covered  with  disgrace  ; 
They  thought  me  of  their  tribe, 

Who  on  filthy  lucre  doat, 
So  they  offered  me  a  bribe 
For  my  vote,  boys,  my  vote  ! 
0  shame  upon  my  betters, 

Who  would  my  conscience  buy  ! 
But  I'll  not  wear  their  fetters. 
Not  I  indeed,  not  I ! 

My  vote?     It  is  not  mine 

To  do  w-ith  as  I  will  ; 
To  cast,  like  pearls,  to  swine, 

To  these  wallowers  in  ill. 
It  is  my  country's  due, 

And  I'll  give  it,  while  I  can, 
To  the  honest  and  the  true. 

Like  a  man,  like  a  man  ! 

No,  no,  I'll  hold  my  vote 

As  a  treasure  and  a  trust. 
My  dishonor  none  shall  quote 

When  I'm  mingled  with  the  dust ; 
And  my  children,  when  I'm  gone, 

Shall  be  strengthened  by  the  thought. 
That  their  father  was  not  one 
To  be  bought,  to  be  bought  ! 
0  sViame  upon  my  betters, 

Who  would  my  conscience  buy  ! 
But  I'll  not  wear  their  fetters. 
Not  I  indeed,  not  1 1 


FASHIONABLE  FOLLIES. 

There  are  in  the  United  States  one  hundred  thou- 
sand young  ladies,  as  Sir  Ralph  Abercrombie  said  of 
those  of  Scotland,  "  the  prettiest  lassies  in  u'  the 
ivorld,'^  who  know  neither  to  toil  nor  spin,  who  are 
clothed  like  the  lilies  of  the  valley, — who  thrum  the 
piano,  and,  a  few  of  the  more  dainty,  the  harp. — 
who  walk,  as  the  Bible  says,  softly, — who  have  read 
romances,  and  some  of  them  seen  the  interior  of 
theatres, — who  have  been  admired  at  the  examina- 
tion of  their  high  school,— who  have  wrought  alge- 
braic solutions  on  the  blackboard, — who  are,  in  short, 
the  very  roses  of  the  garden,  the  attar  of  life,  who  yet, 
horresco  referens, — can  never  expect  to  be  married, 
or,  if  married,  to  live  without — shall  I  speak,  or  for- 
bear ? — putting  their  own  lily  hands  to  domestic 
drudgery. 

We  go  into  the  interior  villages  of  our  recent 
wooden  country.  The  fair  one  sits  down  to  clink  the 
w-ires  of  the  piano.  We  see  the  fingers  displayed  on 
the  keys,  which,  we  are  sure,  never  prepared  a  din- 
ner, nor  made  a  garment  for  her  robustious  brothers. 
We  traverse  the  streets  of  our  own  city,  and  the  wires 
of  the  piano  are  thrummed  in  our  ears  from  every  con- 
siderable house.  In  cities  and  villages,  from  one 
extremity  of  the  Union  to  the  other,  wherever  there 
is  a  good  house,  and  the  doors  and  windows  betoken 
the  presence  of  the  mild  months,  the  ringing  of  the 
piano  wires  is  almost  as  universal  a  sound,  as  the  do- 
mestic hum  of  lile  within. 

We  need  not  enter  in  person.  Imagination  sees 
the  fair  one,  erect  on  her  music  stool,  laced,  and  pi- 
nioned, and  reduced  to  a  questionable  class  of  en- 
tomology, dinging  at  the  wires,  as  though  she  could, 
in  some  way,  hammer  out  of  them  music,  amuse- 
ment and  a  husband.  Look  at  her  taper  and  cream- 
colored  fingers.  Is  she  a  utilitarian?  Ask  the 
fair  one  when  she  has  beaten  all  the  music  out  of  the 
keys,  "  Pretty  fair  one,  canst  talk  to  thy  old  and 
sick  father,  so  as  to  beguile  him  out  of  the  headache 
and  rheumatism  ?  Canst  write  a  good  and  straight- 
forward letter  of  business  ?  Thou  art  a  chemist,  I 
remember,  at  the  examination  ;  canst  compound, 
prepare,  and  afterwards  boil,  or  bake,  a  good  pud- 
ding? Canst  make  one  of  the  hundred  subordinate 
ornaments  of  thy  fair  person  ?  In  short,  tell  us  thy 
use  in  existence,  except  to  be  conteniplated  as  a  pret- 
ty picture  ?  And  how  long  will  any  one  be  amused 
with  the  view  of  a  picture,  after  having  surveyed  it 
a  dozen  times,  unless  it  have  a  mind,  a  heart ;  and, 
we  may  emphatically  add,  the  perennial  value  of 
utility?" 

It  is  a  sad  and  lamentable  truth,  after  all  the  in- 
cessant din  we  have  heard  of  the  march  of  mind,  and 
the  interminable  theories,  inculcations  and  eulogies 
of  education,  that  the  present  is  an  age  of  unbound- 
ed desire  of  display  and  notoriety,  of  exhaustlessand 
unquenchably  Vnirning  ambition  :  and  not  an  age  of 
calm,  contented,  ripe  and  useful  knowledge,  for  the 


VOICES   OF    THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


79 


sacred  privacy  of  the  parlour.  Display,  notoriety, 
surface  and  splendor — these  are  the  first  aims  of  the 
mothers ;  and  can  we  expect  that  the  daughters  will 
drink  into  a  better  spirit  ?  To  play,  sing,  dress, 
glide  down  the  dance,  and  get  a  husband,  is  the  les- 
son;  not  to  be  qualified  to  render  his  home  quiet, 
well-ordered  and  happy. 

It  is  notorious,  that  there  will  soon  be  no  interme- 
diate class  between  those  who  toil  and  spin,  and 
those  whose  claim  to  be  ladies  is  founded  on  their 
being  incapable  of  any  value  of  utility.  At  present, 
we  know  of  none,  except  the  little  army  of  martyrs, 
yclept  school-mistresses,  and  the  still  smaller  corps 
of  editorial  and  active  blue-stockings.  .  If  it  should 
be  my  lot  to  transmigrate  back  to  earth,  in  the  form 
of  a  young  man,  my  first  homages  in  search  of  a  wife 
would  be  paid  to  the  thoughtful  and  pale  faced  fair 
one,  surrounded  by  her  little,  noisy  refractory  sub- 
jects, drilling  her  soul  to  patience,  and  learning  to 
drink  of  the  cup  of  earthly  discipline,  and  more  im- 
pressively than  by  a  thousand  sermons,  tasting  the 
bitterness  of  our  probationary  course,  in  teaching 
the  young  idea  how  to  shoot.  Except,  as  aforesaid, 
school-mistresses  and  blues, we  believe  that  all  other 
damsels,  clearly  within  the  purview  of  the  term 
lady,  estimate  the  clearness  of  their  title  precisely 
in  the  ratio  of  their  uselessness. 

Allow  a  young  lady  to  have  any  hand  in  the  adjust- 
ment of  all  the  components  of  her  dress,  each  of 
which  has  a  contour  which  only  the  fleeting  fashion 
of  the  moment  can  settle  ;  allow  her  time  to  receive 
morning  visitants,  and  prepare  for  afternoon  appoint- 
ments and  evening  parties,  and  v.'hat  time  has  the 
dear  one  to  spare,  to  be  useful  and  do  good  ?  To  la- 
bor !  Heaven  forfend  the  use  of  the  horrid  term !  The 
simple  state  of  the  case  is  this.  There  is  some- 
where, in  all  this,  an  enormous  miscalculation,  an 
infinite  mischief— an  evil,  as  we  shall  attempt  to 
show,  not  of  transitory  or  minor  importance,  but 
fraught  with  misery  and  ruin,  not  only  to  the  fair 
ones  themselves,  but  to  society  and  the  age. 

"We  have  not,  we  admit,  the  elements  on  which  to 
base  the  calculation;  but  we  may  assume  as  we  have 
that  there  are  in  the  United  States  a  hundred  thou, 
sand  young  ladies  brought  up  to  do  nothing  except 
dress,  and  pursue  amusement.  Another  hundred 
thousand  learn  music,  dancing,  and  what  are  called 
the  fashionable  accomplishments.  It  has  been  said 
"  that  revolutions  never  move  backwards.''  It  is 
equally  true  of  emulation  of  the  fashion.  The  few 
opulent  who  can  afford  to  be  good  for  nothing,  pre- 
cede. Another  class  presses  as  closely  as  they  can 
upon  their  steps  ;  and  the  contagious  mischief  spreads, 
downward,  till  the  fond  father,  who  lays  every  thing 
under  contribution,  to  furnish  the  means  jbr  pur- 
chasing a  piano,  and  hiring  a  music-master  for  his 
daughters,  instead  of  being  served,  when  he  comes 
in  from  the  plough,  by  the  ruined  favourites  for  whom 


he  has  sacrificed  so  much,  finds  that  a  servant  must 
be  hired  for  the  young  ladies. 

Here  i^not  the  end  of  the  mischief.  Every  one 
knows  that  mothers  and  daughters  give  the  tone,  and 
laws— more  unalterable  than  those  of  the  JMedes  and 
Per-sians— to  society  Here  is  the  root  of  the  mat- 
ter, the  spring  of  bitter  waters.  Here  is  the  origin 
of  the  complaint  of  hard  times,  bankruptcies,  "reedi- 
ness,  avarice  and  the  horse-leech  cry  >  Give  I  <nve !' 
Here  is  the  reason  why  every  man  lives  up  to  his 
income,  and  so  many  beyond  it.  Here  is  the  reason 
why  the  young  trader,  starting  on  credit  and  calling 
himself  a  merchant,  hiresand  furnishes  such  a  house 
as  if  he  really  was  one,  fails,  and  gives  to  his  credi- 
tors a  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes  and  misap- 
plied sales.  He  has  married  a  wife  whose  vanity  and 
extravagance  are  fathomless,  and  his  ruin  is  explain- 
ed. Hence,  the  general  and  prevalent  evil  of  the 
present  times,  extravagance — conscious  shame  of  the 
thought  of  being  industrious  and  useful.  Hence  the 
concealment  by  so  many  thousand  young  ladies,  (who 
have  not  yet  been  touched  by  the  extreme  of  modern 
degeneracy,  and  who  still  occasionally  apply  their 
hands  to  domestic  employment,)  of  these,  their  good 
deeds,  with  as  much  care  as  if  they  were  crimes. 
Every  body  is  ashamed  not  to  be  expensive  and  fash- 
ionable ;  and  every  one  seems  equally  ashamed  of 
honest  industry.  *  *  * 

I  cannot  conceive,  that  mere  idlers,  male,  or  fe- 
male, can  have  respect  enough  for  themselves  to  be 
comfortable.  I  cannot  imagine,  that  they  should  not 
carry  about  them  such  a  consciousness  of  being  a 
blank  in  existence,  as  would  be  written  on  their 
forehead,  in  the  shrinking  humiliation  of  perceiving 
that  the  public  eye  had  weighed  them  in  the  balance, 
and  found  them  wanting.  Novels  and  romances  may 
say  this  or  that  about  their  etherial  beauties,  their  fine 
ladies  tricked  out  to  slaughter  my  lord  A.,  and  play 
Cupid's  archery  upon  dandy  B.  and  despatch  Amary- 
lis  C.  to  his  sonnets.  I  have  no  conception  of  a  beau- 
tiful woman,  or  a  fine  man,  in  whose  eye,  in  whose 
port,  in  whose  whole  expression,  this  sentiment 
does  not  stand  imbodied  : — "I  am  called  by  my  Cre- 
ator to  duties  ;  I  have  employment  on  the  earth  ;  my 
sterner,  but  more  enduring  pleasures  are  in  discharg- 
ing my  duties." 

Compare  the  sedate  expression  of  this  sentiment 
in  the  countenance  of  man  or  woman,  when  it  is 
knov^'n  to  stand,  as  the  index  of  character  and  the 
fact,  with  the  superficial  gaudiness  of  a  simple,  good- 
for-nothing  belle,  who  disdains  usefulness  and  em- 
ployment, whose  empire  is  a  ball-room,  and  whose 
subjects  dandies,  as  silly  and  as  useless  as  herself. 
Who,  of  the  two,  has  most  attractions  for  a  man  of 
sense  ?  The  one  a  helpmate,  a  fortune  in  herself, who 
can  aid  to  procure  one,  if  the  husband  has  it  not  ; 
who  can  soothe  him  under  the  loss  of  it,  and  what 
is  more,  aid  him  to  regain  it  ?  and  the  other  a  paint, 
ed  butterfly,  for  ornament  only  during  the  vernal  and 


80 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


sunny  months  of  prosperity  ;  and  then  not  becoming 
a  chrys<ilis,  an  inert  rrioth  in  adversity,  but  a  croalcini; 
repinins;,  ill-tempered  termagant,  who  can  only  recur 
to  the  days  of  her  short-lived  triumph,  to  imbitter 
the  misery,  and  poverty,  and  hopelessness  of  a  hus- 
baiiil,  who,  like  herself,  knows  not  to  dij;,  and  is 
ashamed  to  beg. 

We  are  obliged  to  avail  ourselves  of  severe  lan- 
guage in  application  to  a  deep-rooted  malady.  We 
want  words  of  power.  We  need  energetic  and  stern  ap- 
plications. No  country  ever  verged  more  rapidly  to- 
wards extravagance  and  e.xpense.  In  a  young  republic , 
like  ours,  it  is  ominous  of  any  thing  but  good.  Men  of 
thought,  and  virtue,  and  example,  are  called  upon  to 
look  to  this  evil.  Ye  patrician  families,  that  croak, 
and  complain,  and  forbode  the  downfall  of  the  re- 
public, here  is  the  origin  of  your  evils.  Instead  of 
training  your  son  to  waste  his  time,  as  an  idle  young 
gentleman  at  large, — instead  of  inculcating  on  your 
daughter,  that  the  incessant  tinkling  of  a  harpsi- 
chord, or  a  scornful  and  lady-like  toss  of  the  head, 
or  dexterity  in  waltzing,  are  the  chief  requisites  to 
make  her  way  in  life, — if  you  can  find  no  better  em- 
ployment for  them,  teach  him  the  use  of  the  grub- 
bing hoe,  and  her  to  make  up  garments  for  your  ser- 
vants. Train  your  son  and  daughter  to  an  employ- 
ment, to  frugality,  to  hold  the  high  front,  and  to 
walk  the  fearless  step  of  independence,  and  suffi- 
ciency to  themselves  in  any  fortunes,  any  country,  or 
any  state  of  things.  By  arts  like  these,  the  early 
Romans  thrived  When  your  children  have  these 
possessions,  you  may  go  down  to  the  grave  in  peace, 
as  regards  their  temporal  fortunes. — FlinVs  Western 
Keview. 


HEART'S-EASE. 

I  knew  her  in  her  brightness, 

A  creature  full  of  glee. 
As  the  dancing  waves  that  sparkle 

O'er  a  placid  summer  sea; 
To  her  the  world  was  sunshine, 

And  peace  was  in  her  breast, 
For  Contentment  was  her  motto. 

And  a  Heart's-ease  was  her  crest. 

Yet  deem  not  for  a  moment 

That  her  life  was  free  from  care ; 
She  shared  the  storms  and  sorrows 

That  others  sigh  to  bear  ; 
But  she  met  earths  tempests  meekly, 

In  the  hope  of  heaven's  rest, 
So  she  gave  not  up  her  motto, 

Nor  cast  away  her  crest. 

Alas!   the  many  frowning  brows, 
And  eyes  that  speak  of  wo, 

And  hearts  that  turn  repiningly 
From  every  chastening  blow  ; 


But  our  paths  might  all  be  smoother 
And  our  hearts  would  aye  be  blest, 

With  Contentment  for  a  motto, 
And  a  Heart's-ease  for  a  crest. 


FAITH. 

BY    FRANCES    ANN    BUTLEE. 

Better  trust  all,  and  be  deceived, 

And  weep  that  trust,  and  that  deceiving ; 

Than  doubt  one  heart,  that  if  believed 

Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

Oh,  in  this  mocking  world,  too  fast 

The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth  ! 

Better  be  cheated  to  tlie  last 

Than  Ivse  the  bl  ssed  hope  of  truth. 


THE  LAST  WISH. 

Wilson,  the  ornithologist,  requested  that  he  might 
be  buried  in  some  sunny  spot.  This,  some  one  has 
finely  expressed  as  follows  : 

In  some  wild  forest  shade. 
Under  some  spreading  oak,  or  waving  pine, 
Or  old  elm,  festooned  with  the  gadding  vine, 

Let  me  be  laid. 

In  this  dim  lonely  grot. 
No  foot  intrusive  will  disturb  my  dust  ; 
But  o'er  me  songs  of  the  wild  birds  shall  burst, 

Cheering  the  spot. 

Not  amid  charnel  stones. 
Or  coffins  dark,  and  thick  with  ancient  mould. 
With  tattered  pall,  and  fringe  of  cankered  gold, 

May  rest  my  bones  ; 

But  let  the  de'vy  rose. 
The  snow-drop  and  the  violet,  lend  perfume 
Above  the  spot  where,  in  my  grassy  tomb, 

I  take  repose. 

Year  after  year, 
Within  the  silver  birch  tree  o'er  me  hung, 
The  chirping  wren  shall  rear  her  callow  young, 

Shall  build  her  dwelling  near. 

And  ever  at  the  purple  dawn  of  day 
The  lark  shall  chant  a  pealing  song  above, 
And  the  shrill  quail  shall  pipe  her  hymn  of  love 

When  eve  grows  dim  and  gray. 

The  blackbird  and  the  thrush, 
The  golden  oriole,  shall  flit  around, 
And  waken,  with  a  mellow  gust  of  sound, 

The  forest's  solemn  hush. 

Birds  from  the  distant  sea 
Shall  sometimes  hither  flock  on  snowy  wings, 
And  soar  above  my  dust  in  airy  rings. 

Singing  a  dirge  to  me. 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE  HEARTED. 


M( 


SONNETS." 

BY      JONES      VERY. 

THE  SOLDIER. 

He  was  not  armed  like  those  of  eastern  clime, 

Whose  heavy  axes  felled  their  heathen  foe  ; 

Nor  was  he  clad  like  those  of  later  time, 

Whose  breast  worn  cross  betrayed  no  cross  below ; 

Nor  was  he  of  the  tribe  of  Levi  born. 

Whose  pompous    rights   proclaim    how    vain   their 

prayer ; — 
Whose  chilling  words  are  heard  at  night  and  morn, 
Who  rend  their  robes,  but  stilly  their  hearts  would 
But  he  nor  steel  nor  sai:red  robes  had  on,     [spare  ; 
Yet  went  he  forth,  in  God's  almighty  power  : 
He  spoke  the  word  whose  will  is  ever  done 
From  day's  first  dawn,  to  earth's  remotest  hour  ; 
And  mountains  melted  from  his  presence  down, 
And  hell  affrighted  fled  before  his  frown. 

THE    DEAD. 
I  see  them, — crowd  on  crowd  they  walk  the  earth — 
Dry  leafless  trees  to  autumn  wind  laid  bare  ; 
And  in  their  nakedness  find  cause  for  mirth. 
And  all  unclad  would  winter's  rudeness  dare  ; 
No  sap  doth  through  their  clatterijig  branches  flow, 
Whence  springing  leaves  and  blossoms  bright  appear; 
Their  hearts  the  living  God  has  ceased  to  know. 
Who  gives  the  spring  time  to  the  expectant  year ; 
They  mimic  life,  as  if  from  him  to  steal 
His  glow  of  health  to  paint  the  livid  cheek. 
They  borrow  words,  for  thoughts  they  cannot  feel, 
That  with  a  seeming  heart  their  tongue  may  speak  : 
And  in  their  show  of  life  more  dead  they  live, 
Than  those  that  to  the    earth  with  many  tears  they 
give. 

THE    GRAVE- YARD. 

My  heart  grows  sick  before  the  wide  spread  death. 

That  walks  and  spreads  in  seeming  life  around  ; 

And  I  would  love  the  corse  without  a  breath. 

That  sleeps  forgotten  'neath  the  cold,  cold  ground  ; 

For  these  do  tell  the  story  of  decay. 

The  worm  and  rotten  flesh  hide  not,  nor  lie  ; 

But  this,  though   dying  too,  from  day  to  day, 

With  a  false  show  doth  cheat  the  1-onging  eye  ;         j 

And  hide  the  worm  that  gnaws  the  core  of  life. 

With  painted  cheek,  and  smooth  deceitful  skin  ; 

Covering  a  grave  with  sights  of  darkness  rife, 

A  secret  cavern  filled  with  death  and  sin  ; 

And  men  walk  o'er  these  graves  and  know  it  not, 

For  in  the  body's  health  the  soul's  forgot. 


TO  THE  PURE  ALL  THINGS  ARE  PURE. 

The  flowers,  I  pass,  have  eyes  that  look  at  me, 
The  birds  have  ears  that  hear  my  spirit's  voice, 
And  I  am  glad  the  leaping  brook  to  see, 
Because  it  does  at  my  light  step  rejoice. 
Come,  brothers,  all  who  tread  the  grassy  hill, 
Or  wander  thoughtless  o'er  the  blooming  fields, 
Come  learn  the   sweet  obedience  of  the  will  ; 
Thence  every  sight  and  sound    new  pleasure  yields. 
Nature  shall  seem  another  house  of  thine, 
When  he  who  formed  thee,  bids  it  live  and  play, 
And  in  thy  rambles  e'en  the  creeping  vine 
Shall  keep  with  thee  a  jocund  holiday, 
And  every  plant,  and  bird,  and  insect,  be 
Thine  own  companions  born  for  harmony. 

SYMPATHY. 

Thou  hast  not  left  the  rough-barked  tree  to  grow 
Without  a  mate  upon  the  river's  bank  ; 
Nor  dost  thou  on  one  flower  the  rain  bestow. 
But  many  a  cup  the  glittering  drops  has  drank  ; 
The  bird  must  sing  to  one  who  sings  again, 
Else  would  her  notes  less  welcome  be  to  hear ; 
Nor  hast  thou  bid  thy  word  descend  in-  vain, 
But  soon  some  answering  voice  shall  reach  my  ear  ; 
Then  shall  the  brotherhood  of  peace  begin. 
And  the  new  song  be  raised  that  never  dies. 
That  shall  the  soul  from  death  and  darkness  win, 
.■^nd  burst  the  prison  where  the  captive  lies; 
And  one  by  one,  new  born  shall  join  the  strain. 
Till  earth  restores  her  sons  to  heav'n  again. 


TIME    INSTANT. 

Is  there  no  hope  of  better  things  for  our  world, 
and  must  that,  which  hath  been,  still  be  ?  Is  our 
life  really  a  lie,  and  can  it,  by  no  possibility,  come 
true  ?  'Twere  painful  inexpressibly  to  think  thus. 
'Twere  to  make  the  universe  a  chaos  and  our  life  a  rid- 
dle. When,  stepping  forth  in  one  of  these  perfect 
June  mornings,  we  find  ourself  so  gloriously  com- 
passed— that  magnificent  vault  above  and  this  pro- 
digal earth  under  us — yon  ever-stirring  sea  kissing 
its  shores,  and  the  fresh  early  breeze  wafting  a 
blessing  unto  us — and  then  think,  for  a  moment,  on 
the  falsities,  the  disorders,  the  everlasting  clash  and 
unrest,  the  disunion  and  disharmony  of  this  our  so- 
cial condition — we  cannot  believe  'tis  to  endure  as 
now.  We  must  needs  dream  of  man,  the  nobler 
being,  harmonized  with  nature,  the  meaner  creation. 


83 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


Sprung  from  the  same  original,  one  wisdom  and  love 
supervises  both. 

It  needs  not  many  years  to  teach  us  how  at  odds 
is  the  unsophisticated  spirit  with  the  social  order 
whereunto  'tis  born.  Where  lives  he,  to  whom  the 
revelation  of  what  the  world  truly  is  was  not  a  sliock 
and  an  anguish  unspeakable  ?  Evermore  'tis  by  a 
downhill  path  one  reaches  the  platform,  whereon  the 
world's  tasks  are  to  be  executed  and  worldly  suc- 
cess achieved.  Were  the  whole  truth  to  burst  at 
once  upon  us,  we  were  overwhelmed.  But  one 
beauteous  illusion  after  another  fades  away — one 
principle  after  another  is  surrendered  as  romantic 
and  impracticable — compromise  after  compromise 
is  struck  with  absolute  verity — lash  on  lash  of  the 
torturing  scourge  of  necessity  drives  us  into  the 
beaten  ways  and  bows  us  to  "  things  as  they  arc'' — 
ray  by  ray  goes  out  of  our  birth  star,  till 

"  At  length  tlie  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fadu  into  the  light  of  eoiiimon  dav." 

Yet  no  time,  nor  custom,  nor  debasement  itself, 
can  utterly  destroy  our  inwrought  impressions  of 
the  existence  of  a  somewhat  purer  and  nobler  than 
actually  greets  the  sense,  the  possession  whereof 
'tis  man"s  prerogative  to  achieve.  Manifold  and  un- 
mistakable are  the  intimations  thereof.  Of  the 
myriad  things,  that  recall  our  youth,  not  one  but 
remembers  us  of  youth's  high  purposes  and  hopes. 
Music  bears  witness  to  us  of  a  more  exalted  than 
our  wonted  sphere.  And  nature,  with  its  undying 
harmonies  and  ever  fresh  beauty,  hath  perpetual  re- 
buke for  our  disorder  and  deformity.  But  especially 
does  poesy,  the  ever-living  witness  of  the  Divine  to 
man,  point  unceasingly  to  an  ideal,  challenging  our 
aspirations. 

From  all  which  causes  it  is  that  reform  is  mea- 
surably a  demand  of  every  age.  However  self- 
content  and  however  absorbed  by  its  own  immediate 
schemes,  it  cannot  evade  the  thought  of  a  possible 
advance.  Our  own  time  is  one  altogether  unwonted 
in  this  regard.  The  reform-call  is  universal.  One 
malfeasance  and  defect  after  another  has  been  as- 
saulted, till  no  mountain-side  but  hath  echoed  back, 
and  no  remotest  valley  that  hath  not  been  startled, 
by  the  vehement  demand  for  new  and  better  life- 
conlitions.  Governments,  once  keeping  afar  the 
inquiries  of  the  mass  by  pompous  awes  and  terrors, 
have  at  last  felt  the  pressure  of  the  common  hand 
on  their  shoulders,  and  been  fain  to  render,  as  they 
might,  a  justification  of  their  existence.  The  Church, 
no  longer  the  Ark,  the  touch  whereof  is  death,  has 
been,  mayhap,  even  rudely  handled,  and  anywise 
been  moved  to  asssign  men's  largest  good  as  the 
sole  reason  for  its  surviving.  And  throughout  all 
departments  of  social  life  the  same  movement  has 
gone.  Intemperance  itself — earth's  coeval  and  uni- 
versal curse — that  foul,  prodigious  birth,  to  which 
the  world,  desperate  of  resistance,  has  been  fain  to 
yield  an  annual  sacrifice,  from  its   hopefulest  and 


brightest  often,  has  found  at  last  its  destroying 
Theseus,  and  life  looks  greener  in  expectancy  of 
this  deliverance.  Madness,  that  thing  of  horrid  mys- 
tery, before  'Wjiich,  as  'twere  a  fiend  incarnate, 
other  days  have  quailed  in  helpless  awe,  has  by 
modern  benevolence  been  looked  steadily  in  the 
eye  and  tamed.  Nor  has  the  "  jjvisoner"  been  for- 
got. No  more,  like  the  old  time,  leprous,  are  they 
shut  out  from  sympathetic  interchange  with  the 
sound,  and  branded  irrecoverable,  so  left  to  die 
uncared  of.  'Twas  remembered  that  a  condemned 
one  accepted  the  Christ  of  God  while  the  people's 
"  honorable  ones"  flouted  and  murdered  him — that 
to  one  cut  judicially  off  was  "Paradise  opened," 
while  over  the  self-complacent,  who  settled  and 
witnessed  his  fate,  a  doom  impended  so  appalling  as 
to  draw  tears  from  the  guiltless  victim  of  their  bar- 
barity. That  most  illustrious  of  chivalrous  banners, 
the  ensign  of  Howard,  the  Godfrey  of  the  crusade 
for  the  redemption  of  the  outcast,  has  gathered  about 
it  a  host  of  congenial  spirits,  and  many  a  prison  of 
ours,  like  that  of  Paul  and  Silas,  has  echoed  with 
hymn.s  of  the  '<  free" — of  those  born  into  the  "  glori- 
ous liberty  of  the  sons  of  God." 

But  grateful  as  these  movements  are  to  the  phi- 
lanthropic heart,  'tis  impossible  not  to  see,  that, 
after  all.  they  are  neither  central  nor  permanent. 
'Tis  but  shearing  off  the  poisonous  growths,  the 
roots  whereof  are  left  intact  and  vigorous.  The 
hour  has  come,  we  think,  for  assaying  that  radical 
reform,  wherein  all  reforms  else  are  comprised. 
Our  social  order  itself  rests  on  principles  unsound 
and  pernicious,  alid  why  not  strike  at  the  root  of  the 
tree?  It  pains  us  to  witness  so  much  of  honorable,  real 
and  faithful  endeavour  little  better  than  flung  away 
in  tasks,  which  still  nr.ust  be  renewed  at  the  instant 
of  completion.  Might  we  but  live  to  see  even  the 
corner-stone  laid  of  a  right  Christian  Society! 
What  7WW  be  we  but  sons  of  Ishmael  ?  Of  a  huge 
majority  'tis  the  anxious,  everlasting  cry,  "  how 
shall  we  exist  ?"'  Not,  "  how  shall  we  achieve  the 
noblest  good?"  Not,  "how  shall  we  unfold  most 
completely  the  godlike  within  us?"  And  can  it  be 
God's  unrcpealable  ordinance  that  the  great  mass  of 
them  bearing  His  impress  shall  drudge  through  their 
life-term  to  supply  their  meanest  wants,  perpetually 
overtasked,  shrouded  thick  in  intellectual  night, 
uncognisant  of  the  marvels  of  wisdom  and  beauty 
testifying  His  presence  in  our  world,  unparticipant 
of  a  joy  above  that  of  the  beasts  that  perish  ?  Must 
war  and  pestilence  and  famine,  must  crime  and  vice 
and  sickness  and  remorse  still  hound  this  poor  life 
of  man  through  the  whole  of  its  quick-finished  cir- 
cle? Must  the  gallows  yet  pollute,  and  the  prison 
gloom,  and  the  brothel  curse,  and  madhouse  and 
poorhouse  shadow  the  green  breast  of  earth  ?  Wo 
for  our  wisdom,  that  to  labor,  the  first  great  ordi- 
nance of  Heaven,  we  have  discovered  no  better 
instigation  than  the  insuflerable  goad  of  starvation  ! 


VOICES    OF     THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


83 


Wo  for  a  social  system,  wherein  the  individual  and 
the  general  good  stand  irreconcilably  opponent  ! 
Without  prevalent  sickness  the  physician  must 
famish.  But  for  quarrel  and  litigation  the  lawyer's 
hearth  fire  must  go  out.  On  the  existence  of  v^^ar's 
"  butch  T-work"  the  soldier's  hopes  are  based.  The 
monopolist  grows  fat  on  the  scarcity  that  makes 
others  lean.  The  builder  and  an  associated  host  are 
lighted  to  wealth  by  the  conflagration  that  lays 
half  a  city  in  ashes.  Everywhere  the  same  disunity 
prevails,  and  the  precept,  "Love  thy  neighbor  as 
thyself,"  is  practically  nullified  by  the  very  motive 
powers  of  our  social  e.xistence.  The  true  man  can 
remain  such  only  by  fleeing  to  the  desert,  or  waging 
everlasting  warfare  with  all  influences  about  him. 

How  is  it  the  world  deals,  and  ever  hath  dealt 
with  that  extraordinary  virtue,  the  manifestation  of 
the  Divine  to  man  ?  Alas,  for  the  dishonoring  tale  ! 
Lo,  the  noble  Athenian  expiring  of  the  hemlock  in 
the  malefactor's  prison !  Lo,  a  far  higher  than  the 
Athenian  writhing  on  the  <' accursed  tree  !"  Ever 
'tis  crucifixion  the  world  exacts  as  penalty  of  him 
who  would  "  show  it  a  more  excellent  way."  And 
what  reception  finds  genius,  that  perpetual  witness 
to  a  race  ingulfed  by  sense  of  the  immortal  and  in- 
visible ?  Does  the  world  hail  its  Avatar  and  rever- 
ently listen  to  its  utterances,  as  to  the  oracle's 
responses  ?  Alas,  for  the  historic  leaf  that  registers 
its  mortal  fate  !  Society  has  no  allotted  place  for 
him  who,  dowered  with  this  divine  attribute,  sur- 
renders himself  wholly  to  its  inspirations,  speaks 
out  its  unmodified  suggestions,  and  treads,  unques- 
tioning, the  path  it  points  out.  Obstructions  hedge 
him  about,  penury  cramps  and  denies  him  both 
instruments  and  occasions,  calumny  and  ridicule  dog 
him,  neglect  freezes  or  hate  turns  to  gall  his  heart's 
ardent  loves,  and,  with  naked  feet,  he  is  constrained 
to  tread  a  stony,  thorny  way.  Even  so  deals  the 
world  with  them  commissioned  of  God  as  its  pro- 
phets and  teachers.  No  marvel,  then,  at  the  frequent 
perversion  and  sometimes  deep  debasement  of  genius. 

Want  and  fashion,  and  the  broad,  deep  currents  of 
immemorial  opinion  'tis  not  given,  save  rarely,  even 
to  this  to  resist  and  overcome.  Blame  not,  then, 
that  you  witness  Heaven's  own  subtle  flame  burn- 
ing on  strange  altars,  or  the  temple  vessels  desecrated 
by  heathen  orgies. 

But  the  social  order,  that  necessitates  things  like 
these — is  it  for  us  to  acquiesce  therein,  or  shall  we 
demand  a  reorganization  ? 

Verily,  we  crave  no  impracticable,  no  irrational 
thing.  We  ask  a  society  wherein  all  God's  children 
shall  be  sufficiently  fed,  and  clad,  and  housed — 
wherein  every  individual  shall  find  leisure,  sphere, 
and  means  for  the  fit,  harmonious  unfolding  of  all 
his  powers  of  body  and  spirit — wherein  each  shall 
have  his  true  standing-place  and  environment,  and 
may  act  his  individual  self  freely  and  fully  out — 
wherein  the  highest  shall  be  recognized  as  highest. 


and  not  the  lowest  enact  the  governing  and  moulding 
power — wherein  the  want  and  anxiety  and  thraldom 
and  everlasting  clash,  which  now  so  torment  man's 
life,  shall  no  longer  be,  and  the  individual  and  the 
general  weal  shall  be  joined  in  indissoluble  marriage. 
Who,  on  this  broad  earth,  yearns  not  for  such  a 
social  state?  And,  unless  reason  be  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp  and  figures  a  lie,  such  a  state  is  possible,  and, 
through  association,  shall  ere  long  exist ! 

D.    H.    B. 

EPHEMERA. 

BY    CHARLES    WEST    THOMPSON. 

"  What  shadows  we  are,  what  shadows  we  pursue." 
Well  might  weep  the  sentimental  Persian, 

Looking  o'er  his  host  of  armed  men, 
When  on  Greece  he  made  his  wild  incursion, 

Whence  so  few  might  e'er  return  again. 

Well  might  weep  he  o'er  those  countless  millions, 
Dreaming  of  the  future  and  the  past, 

As  he  gazed,  amid  the  gold  pavillions 

Fiound  his  throne,  upon  that  crowd  so  vast  ; 

Musing  with  subdued  and  solemn  feelings, 

On  the  awful  thoughts    that  filled  his  soul, — 

One  of  those  most  terrible  revealings 
That  will  sometimes  o'er  the  spirit  roll  : 

Thoughts,  that  of  that  multitude  before  him, 
Panting  high  for  fame — athirst  to  strive — 

Ere  old  time  had  sped  a  century  o'er  him, 
Not,  perhaps,  would  one  be  left  alive  : 

That  those  hearts  now  bounding  in  the  glory 
Of  existence,  would  be  hushed  and  cold  , 

Not  their  very  names  preserved  in  story, 
Nor  upon  fame's  chronicle  enrolled  : 

All  to  earth,  their  proper  home  departed ; 

Light  heart,  strong  hand,  all   gone  to   kindred 
In  their  vacant  room  a  new  race  started,       [clay  ; 

Careless  of  the  millions  passed  away. 

Well  might  weephe— well  might  we,  in  weeping. 
Make  our  offering  at  sorrow's  call — 

When  we  ponder  how  our  days  are  creeping, 
Like  the  shadow  on  the  mouldering  wall  ; 

When  we  think  how  soon  the  sunbeam,  setting, 
Will  depart,  and  leave  it  all  in  shade — 

And  our  very  friends  will  be  forgetting 
That  the  day-light  o'er  it  ever  played. 

Life  upon  a  swallow's  wing  is  flying,     ' 
O'er  the  earth  it  sparkles  and  is  gone  ; 

All  our  days  are  but  a  lengthened  dying — 
One  dark  hour  before  the  eternal  dawn. 

Riches,  glory,  honor,  fame,  ambition — 
All  as  swiftly  fly,  as  soon  are  fled  ; 

Or,  if  gathered,  mend  they  our  condition  ? 
What  delight  can  these  aflbrd  the  dead? 


84 


VOICES      OF     THE     TRUE-HEARTED 


Chase  no  more  the  phantom  of  thy  dreaming — 
Weary  is  the  hunt,  the  capture  vain  ; 

When  thy  arms  embrace  the  golden  seeming, 
It  will  vanish  from  thy  grasp  again. 

Trouble  not  thy  heart  with  anxions  carings, — 
Thou  art  but  a  shadow — so  are  they  ; 

Let  the  things  of  heaven  deserve  thy  darings, 
They  alone  will  never  pass  away. 

SONNETS, 

BY  RICHARD  CHENEVIX  FRENCH. 

THE  NOBLER  CUNNING. 

T'lysses,  sailing  by  the  Sirens'  isle. 

Sealed  first  his  comrades'  ears,  then  bade  them  fast 

Bind  him  with  many  a  fetter  to  the  mast, 

Least  those  sweet  voices  should  their  souls  beguile, 

And  to  their  ruin  flatter  them,  the  while 

Their  homeward  bark  was  sailing  swiftly  past ; 

And  thus  the  peril  they  behind  them  cast, 

Though  chased  by  those  weird  voices  many  a  mile. 

But  yet  a  nobler  cunning  Orpheus  used  : 

No  fetter  he  put  on,  nor  stopped  his  ear, 

But  ever,  as  he  passed,  sang  high  and  clear 

The  blisses  of  the  Gods,  their  holy  joys, 

And  with  diviner  melody  confused 

And  marred  earth's  sweetest  music  to  a  noise. 

VESUVIUS. 
As  when  unto  a  mother,  having  chid, 
Her  child  in  anger,  there  have  straight  ensued, 
Repentings  for  her  quick  and  angry  mood, 
Till  she  would  fain  see  all  its  traces  hid 
Quite  out  of  sight— even  so  has  Nature  bid 
Fair  flowers,  that  on  the  scarred  earth  she  has 
Tp  blossom,  and  called  up  the  taller  wood  [strew'd, 
To  cover  what  she  ruined  and  undid. 
Oh  !  and  her  mood  of  anger  did  not  last 
More  than  an  instant  ;  but  her  work  of  peace, 
Restoring  and  repairing,  comforting 
The  earth,  her  stricken  child,  will  never  cease  ; 
For  that  was  her  strange  work,  and  quickly  past  ; 
To  this  her  genial  toil  no  end  the  years  shall  bring, 

That  her  destroying  fury  was  with  noise 

And  sudden  uproar — but  far  otherwise, 

With  silent  and  w^ith  secret  ministries, 

Her  skill  in  renovation  she  employs  : 

For  Nature  only  loud,  when  she  destroys, 

Is  silent  when  she  fashions ;  she  will  crowd 

The  work  of  her  destruction,  transient,  loud. 

Into  an  hour,  and  then  long  peace  enjoys. 

Yea,  every  power  that  fashions  and  upholds 

Works  silently — all  things,  whose  life  is  sure. 

Their  life  is  calm  ;  silent  the  light  that  moulds 

And  colors  all  things  ;  and  without  debate 

The  stars,  which  are  for  ever  to  endure. 

Assume  their  thrones  and  their  uiKiucslioncd  state. 


FR.\NCE,   1S31. 

How  long  shall  weary  nations  toil  in  blood, 

How  often  roll  the  still-returning  stone 

Up  the  sharp  painful  height,  ere  they  will  own. 

That  on  the  base  of  individual  good. 

Of  virtue,  manners,  and  pure  homes  endued 

AVith  household  graces — that  on  this  alone 

Shall  social  freedom  stand— where  these  are  gone, 

There  is  a  nation  doomed  to  servitude? 

O,  suffering,  toiling  France,  thy  toil  is  vain  ! 

The  irreversible  decree  stands  sure, 

Where  men  are  selfish,  covetous  of  gain. 

Heady  and  fierce,  unholy  and  impure. 

Their  toil  is  lost,  and  fruitless  all  their  pain  ; 

They  cannot  build  a  work  which  shall  endure. 

WILD-FLOWERS. 

How  thick  the  wild-flowers  blow  about  our  feet, 
Thick  strewn  and  unregarded,  which,  if  rare, 
V\'e  should  take  note  how  beautiful  they  were, 
How  delicately  wrought,  of  scent  how  sw^eet. 
And  mercies  which  do  everywhere  us  meet. 
Whose  very  commonness  should  win  more  praise, 
Do  for  that  very  cause  less  wonder  raise. 
And  thus  with  slighter  thankfulness  we  greet. 
Yet  pause  thou  often  on  life's  onward  way. 
Pause  time  enough  to  stoop  and  gather  one 
Of  these  sweet  wild-flowers — time  enough  to  tell 
Its  beauty  over — this  when  thou  has  done. 
And  marked  it  duly,  then  if  thou  canst  lay 
It  wet  with  thankful  tears  into  thy  bosom,  well ! 


A-LL  MORTGAGED  ! 

BY     ELIHU      BURKITT. 

To  one  born  and  bred  in  New  England,  the  senti- 
ment must  be  inevitable,  that  it  is  a  '  free  country.' 
The  language  of  every-day  life  teems  with  that  ca- 
pital idea.  It  is  the  first  idea  that  infancy  is  taught, 
and  the  last  one  forgotten  by  old  age.  Freedom, 
Liberty,  Free  Institutions,  Frte  Soil,  kc.  are  terms 
of  costly  wator  in  the  jewelry  of  our  patriotism. 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  think— be  it  true  or  false — 
that  cold,  hard-soiled,  pure-skyed  New  England,  is, 
indeed,  a  free  land  !  that  in  her  long  struggle  for 
freedom,  she  expunged  from  her  soil  every  crimson 
spot,  every  lineamentof  human  slavery,  and  severed 
every  ligament  that  connected  her  with  that  inhu- 
man institution  !  And  so  we  thought.  We  got  out 
of  our  cradle  with  that  idea.  It  was  in  our  heart 
when  we  first  looked  up  at  the  blue-sky,  and  listen- 
ed to  the  little  merry  birds  that  were  swimming  in 
its  bosom.  It  was  in  our  heart,  like  thoughts  of  mu- 
sic, when  the  spring  winds  came,  and  spring  voices 
twittered  in  the  tree  tops;  when  the  swallow  and 
the  lark  and  all  the  summer  birds  sang  for  joy,  and 


VOICES  OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


85 


the   meadow-stream  chimed  in  its   silvery  treble, 
deftly  singing  to  the  daisies.  When  every  thing  was 
alive    with    the    rapture    of  freedom,    we    thought, 
among  other  bright  and  boyish  vagaries,  that  this 
land  was  free — free  as  the  air ;  otherwise  we  would 
never  have  slid  down  hill  on  it,  or  rolled  up  a  snow- 
fort,  or  have  done  any  thing  of  the  kind  by  way  of 
sport.     And  we  were  told  that  it  was  free.  Old  men 
that  wore  queues  and  hobbled  about  on  crutches,  came 
and  set  by  our  father's  fireside,  and  showed   great 
scars  on    their  llesh.  and  told  how  much  it  had  cost 
to  make  this  land  free.     And  on  a  hot  summer  day 
of  every  year,  the  people  stuck  up  a  long  pole  in  the 
middle  of  the  village    green  ;  and  they  tied  to  the 
top  a  large  piece  of  striped  cloth  ;  and  they  rung 
the  bell  in  the  steeple  ;  and  they  shot  off  a   hollow 
log  of  cast  iron  ;  and  the  hills  and  woods  trembled 
at  the  noise,  and  father  said,  and  every  body  said,  it 
was  because  this  land  was  free.  It  was  our  boyhood's 
thought,  and  of  all  our   young  fancies,  we  loved  it 
best ;  for  there  was  an  element  of  religion  in  it.  We 
have    clung  fondly   to    the    patriotic    illusion,    and 
should  have  hugged  it  to  our  bosom  through  life,  but 
for  an  incident  that  suddenly  broke  up  the  dream. 

While  meditating  one  Sabbath  evening,  a  few  years 
ago,  upon  the  blessings  of  this  free,  gospel  land,  and 
with  the  liberty  wherewith  God  here  sets  his  child- 
ren free,  a  neighbour  opened  the  door,  and  whispered 
cautiously  in  our  ear,  that  a  young,  sable  fugitive 
from  Slavery  had  knocked  at  his  door,  and  he  had 
given  him  a  place  by  his  fire.  "  A  slave  in  New 
England !"  exclaimed  we  as  we  took  down  our  hat  : 
'<  is  it  possible  that  slaves  can  breathe  here  and  not 
be  free !" 

There  were  many  of  us  that  gathered  around  that 
young  man  ;  and  few  of  us  all  had  ever  seen  a  slave. 
There  were  mothers  in  the  group  that  had  sons  of 
the  same  age  as  that  of  the  boy ;  and  tears  came  into 
their  eyes  when  he  spoke  of  his  widowed  slave  mo- 
ther ;  and  there  were  young  sisters  with  Sunday- 
school  books  in  their  hands,  that  surrounded  him 
,and  looked  in  his  face  with  strange  and  tearful  earn- 
estness, as  he  spoke  of  the  sister  he  had  left  in  bond- 
age. He  had  been  '  hunted  like  a  partridge  upon  the 
mountains,'  and  his  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke.  His 
pursuers  had  tracked  him  from  one  place  to  another  ; 
they  were  even  now  hard  at  his  heels  ;  his  feet  were 
bruised  and  swollen  from  the  chase  ;  he  was  faint 
and  weary,  and  he  looked  around  upon  us  imploring- 
ly for  protection.  Starting  at  every  sound  from 
without,  he  told  with  a  tremulous  voice,  the  story  of 
his  captivity,  and  re-capture,  for  thrice  had  he  fled 
from  slavery,  and  twice  had  he  been  delivered  up  to 


ada.  Canada  and  heaven,  he  said,  were  the  only  two 
places  that  the  slave  sighed  for,  and  he  tied  up  his 
clouted  shoes  to  go.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  latch, 
and  his  eyes  asked  if  he  might  go.  We  knew  what 
was  in  his  heart,  and  he  what  Avas  in  our  own, when 
the  children  came  near  and  asked  their  parents  why 
the  negro  boy  might  not  live  in  Massachussetts,  and 
why  he  should  go  so  far  to  find  a  home.  And  we 
looked  in  each  other's  faces  and  said  not  a  word,  for 
our  hearts  were  troubled  at  their  questions. 

Some  one  asked  for  "  the  bond,^'  and  it  was  read  ; 
and  there,  among'great  swelling  words  about  liberty, 
we  found  it  written,  that  there  was  not  an  acre  nor 
an   inch   of  ground  within   the  limits  of  the   great 
American  Republic   which   was  not  mortgaged  to 
slavery.     And  when  the  reader  came  to  that  passage 
in  the  bond,  his  voice  fell,  lest   the  children  should 
hear  it,  and  ask  more  questions.     He  passed  the  in- 
strument around,  and  he  saw  it  written, — "  too  fair- 
ly writ" — that  there  was  not  a  foot  of  soil  in  New 
England — not  a  spot  consecrated  to  learning,  liber- 
ty, or  religion — not  a  square  inch  on  Bunker  Hill,  or 
any  other  hill,  nor  cleft,  or  cavern  in  her  mountain 
sides,  nor  nook  in  her  dells,  or  lair  in  her  forests,  nor 
a  hearth,  nor  a  cabin  door,  which  did  not  bear  the 
bloody  endorsement  in  favor  of  slavery.     <<  It  was 
in  the  bond" — the  bond  of  our  union,   "  ordained  to 
establish  justice,  promote  the  general  welfare  and  se- 
cure the  blessings  of  liberty  to  ourselves  and  to  our 
posterity;"  it  was  in  that  anomalous  instrument,  that 
the  slave  hunter  and  his  hounds  might  seize  upon  his 
trembling  victim  on  the  holiest  spot  of  this  land  of 
the  free. 

It  was  a  bright  night.     The  heavens  were  full  of 
eyes  looking  down  upon   the  earth ;  and  we  wished 
that  they  were  closed  for  an  hour  ;  that  the  clouds 
would  com^e  over  the  moon  ;  for  the  man-hunters  had 
come.     They  had  tracked  the  young  fugitive,  and 
were  lying  in  wait  to  seize  him  even  on  the  hearth 
of  a  freeman.     We  never  shall  forget  that  hour.   We 
had  attired  the  young  slave  in  a  female  garb,  and  put 
his  hand  within  the  arm  of  one   of  our  number.     A 
passing  cloud   obscured  the   moon,  and  the  two  is- 
sued into  the  street.     Softly  and  silently  we  follow- 
ed them  at  a  distance,  and  our  hearts  were  heavy 
within  us,  that  Massachusetts  had  no  law  that  could 
extend  protection  to  that  young  human  being,  or  per- 
mit him  to  be    protected    without   law.     It   was   a 
strange  feeling  to  walk  the  streets  of  Worcester,  as 
if  treading  on  enemies'  ground  ;  to  avoid  the  houses 
and    faces  of  our  neighbours  and  friends,  as  if  they 
were  all  slaveholders,  and  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitive; 
as  if  here,  in  the  heart  of  the  Old  Bay  State,  there 


his  pursuers.      He   was  checkered   over   with  the    was  something  felonious  in  that  deed  of  mercy  that 


marks  of  the  scourge,  for  his  master  had  prescribed 
a  hundred  lashes  to  cure  him  of  his  passion  for  free- 
dom. A  worse  fate  awaited  him  if  he  failed  in  his 
third  attempt  to  be  free ;  and  he  walked  to  the 
window  and  softly  asked  the  nearest  way  to  Can- 


would  obliterate  the  track  of  the  innocent  image  of 
God  fl}'ing  for  life  and  liberty  before  his  relentless 
pursuer.  We  passed  close  by  the  old  Burial  Ground, 
where  slumbered  many  a  hero  of  Seventy  Six. 
There,   within  a  stone's  throw,  was   the  grave  of 


86 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


Captain  Peter  Slater,  one  of  the  "Indians"  who 
threw  the  taxed  tea  into  Boston  harbor.  It  was  a 
moment  of  humiliation  and  indignant  grief,  when 
passing  by  his  monument,  we  compared  the  taxes  on 
tea  and  sugar  of  his  day,  with  that  despotic  landlux, 
that  slave-breeding  incumbrance,  that  Sliylock 
mortgage  whi(^h  the  founders  of  our  Constitution 
imposed  upon'every  square  inch  of  New  England,  in 
the  terms  of  the  "bond." 

We  have  now  neither  time  nor  space  to  tell  the 
story  of  that  young  fugitive.  We  wish  he  might 
tell  it  himself  upon  every  hearthstone  of  New  Eng- 
land. We  wish  no  human  heart  a  needless  unplea- 
sant emotion ;  but  we  would  that  every  child  in  this 
"  land  of  the  free"  miglit  see  a  slave, — a  being  that 
ow\s  A  God,  yet  owned,  and  bound,  and  beat,  and 
Bold  by  man.  We  would  have  the  rising  genera- 
tion well  instructed  in  the  terms  of  "  the  bond,"  and 
a  few  personal  illustrations  of  the  condition  which  it 
"  secures"  might  be  a  service  in  defining  their  path 
of  duty.  They  will  soon  enter  upon  this  goodly  heri- 
tage ;  and  shall  we  give  it  over  into  their  hands  en- 
cumbered with  this  iniquitous  entailment  in  favor  of 
slavery  ?  No  !  if  there  be  wealth  enough  in  all  New 
England's  jewels— in  the  cabinet  of  her  great  deeds 
of  virtue  and  patriotism— let  us  lift  this  bloody 
mortgage  from  one  square  acre  of  her  soil,  where- 
upon the  hunted  slave  may  say,  "  /  thank  my  God 
that  I  too  am  at  last  a  Man  .'"  When  trembling  and 
panting,  he  struck  his  foot  on  that  consecrated  spot, 
then  the  chase  should  cease,  though  his  master  and 
his  dogs  were  at  his  heels.  That  English  acre  in 
New  England  should  be  another  Canada  for  the  fu- 
gitive bondman.  He  should  carry  a  handful  of  its 
soil  in  his  bosom  as  a  certificate,  honored  throughout 
the  world,  that  he  was  free. 


A  CHRISTMAS  TALE. 

BY  RICn.\KD  MONKTOX  MII^NES. 

The  windows  and  the  garden  door  , 
Must  now  be  closed  for  night. 

And  you,  my  little  girl,  no  more 
Can  watch  the  snow-flakes  white 

Fall,  like  a  silver  net,  before 
The  face  of  dying  light. 

Draw  down  the  curtains  every  fold. 

Let  not  a  gap  let  in  the  cold, 

Bring  your  low  seat  toward  the  fire, 

And  you  shall  have  your  heart's  desires ; 

A  story  of  that  favorite  book, 

In  which  you  often  steal  a  look. 

Regretful  not  to  understand 

Words  of  a  distant  time  and  land  ;  — 

That  small  square  book  that  seems  so  old 

In  tawny  white  and  faded  gold, 


And  which  I  could  not  leave   to-day. 
Even  with  the  snow  and  you  to  play. 

It  was  on  such  a  night  as  this, 

Six  hundred  years  ago. 
The  wind  as  loud  and  pitiless, 

As  loaded  with  the  snow, 
A  night  when  you  might  start  to  meet 
A  friend  in  an  accustomed  street. 
That  a  lone  child  went  up  and  down 
The  pathways  of  an  ancient  town — 
A  little  child,  just  such  as  you. 
With  eyes,  though  clouded,  just  as  blue, 
With  just  such  long  fine  golden  hair. 
But  wet  and  rough  for  want  of  care, 
And  just  such  tender  tottering  feet 
Bare  to  the  cold  and  stony  street. 

Alone  !  this  fragile  human  flower, 
Alone  I  at  this  unsightly  hour, 
A  playful,  joyful,  peaceful  form, 

A  creature  of  delight. 
Become  companion  of  the  storm, 

And  phantom  of  the  night ! 
No  gentler  thing  is  near, — in  vain 
Its  warm  tears  meet  the  frozen  rain, 
No  watchful  ears  await  its  cries 
On  every  name  that  well  supplies 
The  childly  nature  with  a  sense 
Of  love  and  care  and  confidence  ; 
It  looks  before,  it  looks  behind. 
And  staggers  with  the  weighty  wind, 
Till,  terror  overpowering  grief. 
And  feeble  as  the  Autumn  leaf. 
It  passes  down  the  tide  of  air, 
It  knows  not,  thinks  not,  how  or  where. 

Beneath  a  carven  porch,  before 
An  iron-belted  oaken  door, 
The  tempest  drives  the  cowering  child. 
And  rages  on  as  hard  and  wild. 
This  is  not  shelter,  though  the  sleet 
Strikes  heavier  in  the  open  street. 
For,  to  that  infant  ear,  a  din 
Of  festive  merriment  within 
Comes,  by  the  contrast,  sadder  far 
Than  all  the  outer  windy  war. 
With  something  cruel,  something  curst, 
In  each  repeated  laughter-burst  ; 
The  thread  of  constant  cheerful  light. 
Drawn  through  a  crevice  on  the  sight, 
Tells  it  of  heat  it  cannot  feel. 

And  all  the  fire. side  bliss 
That  home's  dear  portrals  can  reveal 

On  such  a  night  as  this. 

How  can  those  hands  so  small  and  frail, 
Empassioned  as  they  will,  avail 
Against  that  banded  wall  of  wood 
Standing  in  senseless  hardihood 


VOICES  OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


f 


87 


Between  the  warmth  and  love  and  mirth, 
The  comforts  of  the  living  earth, 
And  the  lorn  creature  shivering  there, 
The  plaything-  of  the  savage  air  ? 

We  would  not,  of  our  own  good  will, 
Believe  in  so  much  strength  of  ill. 
Believe  that  life  and  sense  are  given 
To  any  being  under  heaven, 
Only  to  weep  and  suffer  thus, 

To  suffer  without  sin, 
What  would  be  for  the  worst  of  us 

A  bitter  discipline. 

Yet  now  the  tiny  hands  no  more 
Are  striking  that  unfeeling  door ; 
Folded  and  quietly  they  rest. 
As  on  a  cherub's  marble  breast ; 
And  from  the  guileless  lips  of  wo 
Are  passing  words  confused  and  low. 
Remembered  fragments  of  a  prayer, 
Learnt  and  repeated  otherwhere. 
With  the  blue  summer  overhead. 

On  a  sweet  mother's  knee, 
Beside  the  downy  cradle-bed, 

But  always  happily. 

Though  for  those  holy  words  the  storm 

Relaxes  not  its  angry  form, 

The  child  no  longer  stands  alone 

Upon  th'  inhospitable  stone  : 

There  now  are  two, — one  to  the  other 

Like  as  a  brother  to  twin-brother. 

But  the  new  comer  has  an  air 

Of  something  wonderful  and  rare. 

Something  divinely  calm  and  mild, 

Something  beyond  a  human  child  ; 

His  eyes  came  through  the  thickening  night. 

With  a  soft  planetary  light, 

And  from  his  hair  there  falls  below 

A  radiance  on  the  drifting  snow, 

And  his  untarnish'd  childly  bloom 

Seems  but  the  brighter  for  the  gloom. 

See  what  a  smile  of  gentle  grace 

Expatiates  slowly  o'er  his  face  I 

As,  with  a  mien  of  soft  command. 

He  takes  that  numb'd  and  squalid  hand, 

And  with  a  voice  of  simple  joy 

And  greeting  as  from  boy  to  boy; 

He  speaks  "What  do  you  at  this  door? 

Why  called  you  not  on  me  before  ? 

What  like  you  best  ?  that  I  should  break 

This  sturdy  barrier  for  your  sake, 

And  let  you  in  that  you  may  share 

The  warmth  and  joy  and  cheerful  fare ; 

Or  will  you  trust  to  me  alone, 

And  heeding  not  the  windy  moan 

Nor  the  cold  rain  nor  lightning  brand, 

Go  forward  with  me,  hand  in  hand  ? 


Within  this  house,  if  e'er  on  earm^^^^- 
You  will  find  love  and  peace  and  mirtlTj^""""" 
And  there  may  rest  for  many  a  day, 
While  1  am  on  mine  open  way  ; 
And  should  your  heart  to  me  incline, 

\\  hen  I  am  gone. 
Take  you  this  little  cross  of  mine 

'J'o  lean  upon, 
And  sitting  out  what  path  you  will, 
Careless  of  your  own  strength  and  skill, 
You  soon  will  find  me ;  only  say. 
What  wish  you  most  to  do  to-day  ?" 

The  child  looks  out  into  the  night, 
With  gaze  of  pain  and  pale  affright, 
Then  turns  an  eye  of  keen  desire 
On  the  thin  gleam  of  inward  fire. 
Then  rests  a  long  and   silent  while. 
Upon  that  brother's  glorious  smile. 
You've  seen  the  subtle  magnet  draw 
The  iron  by  its  hidden  law. 
So  seems  that  smile  to  lure  along 
The  child  from  an  enclosing  throng 
Of  fears  and  fancies  undefined. 
And  to  one  passion  fix  its  mind, — 
Till  every  struggling  doubt  to  check 

And  give  to  love  its  due. 
It  casts  its  arms  about  his  neck, 

And  cries  "  V/ith  you,  with  you, — 
For  you  have  sung  me  many  a  song, 
Like  mine  own  mother's,  all  night  long, 
And  you  have  play'd  with  me  in  dreams, 
Along  the  walks,  beside  the  streams, 
Of  Paradise— the  bless'd  bowers. 
Where  what  men  call  the  stars  are  flowers, 
And  what  to  them  looks  deep  and  blue 
Is  but  a  veil  which  we  saw  through, 
Into  the  garden  without  end. 
Where  you  the  angel-children  tend  ; 
So  that  they  asked  me  when  I  woke, 
Where  I  had  been,  to  whom  I  spoke. 
What  I  was  doing  there,  to  seem 
So  heavenly-happy  in  my  dream  ? 
Oh !  take  me,  take  me  there  again. 
Out  of  the  cold  and  wind  and  rain, 
Out  of  this  dark  and  cruel  town. 
Whose  houses  on  the  orphan  frown  ; 
Bear  me  the  thundering  clouds  above 
To  the  safe  kingdom  of  your  love ; 
Of  if  you  will  not,  I  can  go 
With  you  barefooted  through  the  snow; 
I  shall  not  feel  the  bitter  blast. 
If  you  will  take  me  home  at  last." 

Three  kisses  on  its  dead-cold  cheeks, 

Three  on  its  bloodless  brow. 
And  a  clear  answering  music  speaks, 

"  Sweet  brother!  come  there  now  : 
It  shall  be  so ;  there  is  no  dread 


89 


VOICES   OF   THK   TRUE-HEARTED. 


Within  the  auriole  of  mine  head  ; 
'I'his  hand  in  yours,  this  living  hand, 
Can  all  the  world  of  cold  withstand, 
And  though  so  small  is  strong  to  lift 
Your  feet  above  the  thickest  drift ; 
The  wind  that  round  you  raged  and  broke 
Shall  fold  around  us  like  a  cloak. 
And  we  shall  reach  that  garden  soon, 
Without  the  guide  of  Sun  or  Moon." 

So  down  the  mansions  slippery  stair, 

Into  the  midnight  weather, 
Pass,  as  if  sorrow  never  were, 

The  weak  and  strong  together. 
This  was  the  night  before  the  morn 
On  which  the  Hope  of  Man  was  born. 
And  long  ere  dawn  can  claim  the  sky, 
The  tempest  rolls  subservient  by  ; 
While  bells  on  all  sides  sing  and  say, 
How  Christ  the  child  was  born  to-day  ; 
Free  as  the  sun's  in  June,  the  rays 
Mix  merry  with  the  Yuhl-log's  blaze  ; 
Some  butterflies  of  snow  may  float 
Down  slowly,  glistening  in  the  mote. 
But  crystal-leaved  and  fruited  trees 
Scarce   lose  a  jewel  in  the  breeze  ; 
Frost-diamonds  twinkle  on  the  grass, 

Transformed  from  pearly  dew. 
And  silver  flowers  encrust  the  glass, 

Which  gardens  never  knew. 

The  inmates  of  the  house,  before 
Whose  iron-fended  heedless  door, 
The  children  of  our  nightly  tale 
Were  standing,  rise  refreshed  and  bale, 
And  run,  as  if  a  race  to  win, 
To  let  the  Christmas   niorning  in. 
They  find  upon  the  threshold  stone, 
A  little  child  just  like  their  own  ; 
Asleep,  it  seems,  but  when  the  head 
Is  raised,  it  sleeps  as  sleep  the  dead 
The  fatal  point  had  touched  it,  while 
The  lips  had  just  begun  a  smile. 
The  forehead  'mid  the  matted  tresses 
A  perfect  painless  end  expresses, 
And,  unconvuls'd,  the  hands  may  wear 
The  posture  m.ore  of  thanks  than  prayer. 

They  tend  it  straight  in  wondering  grief. 
And  when  all  skill  brings  no  relief. 
They  bear  it  onw'ard  in  its  smile. 
Up  the  Cathedral's  central  aisle  : 
I'here,  soon  as  Priests  and  People  heard 
How  the  thing  was,  they  speak  not  word, 
But  take  the  usual  image  meant 
The  blessed  babe  to  represent, 
Forth  from  its  cradle,  and   instead 
I<ay  down  that  silent  mortal  head. 
Nor  incense  cloud  and  anthem  sound 
Arise  the  beauteous  body  round  ; 


Softly  the  carol  chant  is  sung. 
Softly  the  mirthful  peal  is  rung, 
And,  when  the  solemn  duties  end, 
With  tapers  earnest  Jroops  attend 
The  gentle  corpse,  nor  cease  to  sing. 

Till,  by  an  almond  tree. 
They  bury  it,  that  the  flowers  of  spring 

May  o'er  it  soonest  be. 


UNWRITTEN  MUSIC. 

BY  N.   P.  WILLIS. 

Tickler. — I  will  accompany  you  on  the  poker  and 
tongs. 

SnEpnEni). — I  hae  nac  objections — for  you've  not 
only  a  sowl  for  music,  sir,  but  a  genius  too,  and  the 
twa  dinna  always  gang  thegither — mony  a  mon  haein' 
as  fine  an  ear  fortunes,  as  the starnies on  a  dewy  nicht, 
that  listen  to  the  grass  growin'  roun'  the  vernal  prim' 
roses,  and  yet  na  able  to  play  on  ony  instrument — on 
even  the  flute — let  abee  the  poker  and  tangs. 

NocTEs  Ambhosian;e. 

I  am  not  known  as  a  lover  of  music.  I  seldom 
praise  the  player  upon  an  instrument,  or  the  singer 
of  song.  I  stand  aside  if  I  listen,  and  I  keep  the  mea- 
sure in  my  heart  without  beating  it  audibly  with  my 
foot,  or  moving  my  head  visibly  in  a  practised  ab- 
straction There  are  times  when  I  do  not  listen  at 
all  ;  and  it  may  be  that  the  mood  is  not  on  me.  or 
that  the  spell  is  mastered  by  Beauty,  or  that  I  hear 
a  human  voice,  whose  every  whisper  is  sweeter  than 
all.  There  are  some  who  are  said  to  have  a  passion 
for  music,  and  they  will  turn  away  at  the  beginning 
of  a  son  J,  though  it  be  only  a  child's  lesson,  and 
leave  gazing  on  an  eye  that  w-as,  perhaps,  like  shad- 
ed water,  or  the  forehead  of  a  beautiful  woman,  or 
the  lip  of  a  young  girl,  to  listen.  I  cannot  boast  that 
my  love  of  music  is  so  strong.  I  confess  that  there 
are  things  I  know  that  are  often  an  overcharm,  tho' 
not  always  ;  and  I  would  not  give  up  my  slavery  to 
their  power,  if  I  might  be  believed  to  have  gone 
mad  at  an  opera,  or  have  my  "  bravo"  the  signal  for 
the  applause  of  a  city. 

There  is  unwritten  Music.  The  world  is  full  of 
it.  I  hear  it  every  hour  that  I  wake,  and  my  wak- 
ing sense  is  surpassed  sometimes  by  my  sleeping — 
though  that  is  a  mystery.  There  is  no  sound  of  sim- 
ple nature  that  is  not  Music.  It  is  all  Heaven's 
work,  and  so  harmony.  You  may  mingle  and  divide, 
and  strengthen  the  passages  of  its  great  anthem,  and 
and  it  is  still  melody — melody.  The  winds  of 
summer  blow  over  the  waterfalls  and  the  brooks, 
and  bring  their  voices  to  your  ear  as  if  their  sweet- 
ness was  linked  by  an  accurate  finger;  yet  the  wind 
is  but  a  fitful  player;  and  you  may  go  out  when  the 
tempest  is  up,  and  hear  the  strong  trees  moaning  as 
they  lean  before  it,  and  the  long  grass  hissing  as  it 


VOICES    OF    THE    T  R  U  E  -  H  E  A  R  T  F,  D  , 


89 


sweeps  through,  and  its  own  solemn  monotony  over 
all — and  the  dimple  of  that  same  brook,  and  the 
waterfall's  unaltered  bass,  shall  still  reach  you  in 
the  intervals  of  its  power,  as  much  in  harmony  as 
before,  and  as  much  a  part  of  its  perfect  and  perpetu- 
al hymn.  There  is  no  accident  of  Nature's  causing 
which  can  bring  in  discord.  The  loosened  rock  may 
fall  into  the  abyss,  and  the  overblown  tree  rush 
down  through  the  branches  of  the  wood,  and  the 
thunder  peal  awfully  in  the  sky ;  and,  sudden  and 
violent  as  these  changes  seem,  their  tumult  goes  up 
with  the  sound  of  wind  and  water  ;  and  the  exqui- 
site ear  of  the  musician  can  detect  no  jar. 

I  have  read  somewhere  of  a  custom  in  the  High- 
lands, which,  in  connection  with  the  principle  it  in- 
volves, is  exceedingly  beautiful.  It  is  believed  that, 
to  the  ear  of  the  dying — which  just  before  death  be- 
comes always  exquisitely  acute — the  perfect  harmo- 
ny of  the  voices  of  nature  is  so  ravishing  as  to  make 
him  forget  his  suffering,  and  die  gently,  like  one  in 
a  pleasant  trance.  And  so  when  the  last  moment 
approaches,  they  take  him  from  the  close  shieling, 
and  bear  him  out  into  the  open  sky,  that  he  may  hear 
the  familiar  rushing  of  the  streams,  I  can  believe 
that  it  is  not  superstition.  I  do  not  think  we  know 
how  exquisitely  nature's  many  voices  are  attuned  to 
harmony,  and  to  each  other.  The  old  philosopher  we 
read  of  might  not  have  been  dreaming  when  he  dis- 
covered that  the  order  of  the  sky  was  a  scroll  of 
written  music,  and  that  two  stars — which  are  said  to 
Lave  appeared  centuries  after  his  death  in  the  very 
places  he  mentioned — were  wanting  to  complete  the 
harmony.  We  know  how  wonderful  are  the  phenome- 
na of  color  ;  how  strangely  like  consummate  art  the 
strongest  dyes  are  blended  in  the  plumage  of  birds, 
and  the  cups  of  ilowers  ;  so  that  to  the  practised  eye 
of  the  painter  the  harmony  is  inimitably  perfect.  It 
is  natural  to  suppose  every  part  of  the  universe 
equally  perfect,  and  it  is  a  glorious  and  elevating 
thought,  that  the  stars  of  heaven  are  moving  on  con- 
tinually  to  music,  and  that  the  sounds  we  daily  listen 
to  are  but  a  part  of  a  melody  that  reaches  to  the 
very  centre  of  heaven's  illimitable  spheres. 

Pardon  me  a  digression  here,  reader.  Aside  from 
the  intention  of  the  custom  just  alluded  to,  there  is 
something  delightful  in  the  thought  of  thus  dying  in 
the  open  air.  I  had  always  less  horror  of  death  than 
of  its  ordinary  gloomy  circumstances.  There  is 
something  unnatural  in  the  painful  and  extravagant 
sympathy  with  which  the  dying  are  surrounded.  It 
is  not  such  a  gloomy  thing  to  die.  The  world  has 
pleasant  places,  and  I  would  hear  in  my  last  hour 
the  voice  and  the  birds,  and  the  chance  music  I  may 
have  loved ;  but  better  music,  and  voices  of  more 
ravishing  sweetness,  and  far  pleasanter  places,  are 
found  in  heaven,  and  I  cannot  feel  that  it  is  well  or 
natural  to  oppress  the  dying  with  the  distressing 
wretchedness  of  common  sorrow.  I  would  be  let 
go  cheerfully  from  the  world,  I  would  have  my 
12 


friends  comfort  me  and  smile  pleasantly  on  me,  and 
feel  willing  that  I  should  be  released  from  sorrow, 
and  loerplexity,  and  disease,  and  go  up,  now  that  my 
race  was  finished,  joyfully  to  my  reward.  And  if 
it  be  allotted  to  me,  as  I  pray  it  will,  to  die  in  the 
summer  time,  I  would  be  borne  out  into  the  open 
sky,  and  have  my  pillow  lifted  that  I  might  see  the 
glory  of  the  setting  sun,  and  pass  away,  like  him, 
with  undiminished  light,  to  another  world. 

It  is  not  mere  poetry  to  talk  of  the  "  voices  of 
summer.''  It  is  the  day  time  of  the  year,  and  its 
myriad  influences  are  audibly  at  work.  Even  at 
night  you  may  lay  your  ear  to  the  ground,  and  hear 
that  faintest  of  murmurs,  the  sound  of  growing 
things.  I  used  to  think  -when  I  was  a  child  that  it 
was  fairy  music.  If  you  have  been  used  to  rising 
early,  you  have  not  forgotten  how  the  stillness  of 
the  night  seems  increased  by  the  timid  note  of  the 
first  bird.  It  is  the  only  time  when  I  would  lay  a 
finger  on  the  lip  of  nature — the  deep  hush  is  so  very 
solemn.  By  and  by,  however,  the  birds  are 
all  up,  and  the  peculiar  holiness  of  the  hour  declines, 
but  what  a  world  of  music  does  the  world  shine 
on  !  the  deep  lowing  of  the  cattle  blending  in  with 
the  capricious  warble  of  a  thousand  of  heaven's  hap- 
py creatures,  and  the  stir  of  industry  coming  on  the 
air  like  the  under  tones  of  a  choir,  and  the  voice  of 
man,  heard  in  the  distance  over  all,  like  a  singer 
among  instruments,  giving  them  meaning  and  lan- 
guage !  And  then,  if  your  ear  is  delicate,  you  have 
minded  all  these  sounds  grow  softer  and  sweeter,  as 
the  exhalations  of  the  dew  floated  up,  and  the  vibra- 
tions loosened  in  the  thin  air. 

You  should  go  out  some  morning  in  June  and  lis- 
ten to  the  notes  of  the  birds.  They  express  far 
more  than  our  own,  the  characters  of  their  owners. 
From  the  scream  of  the  vulture  and  the  eagle,  to  the 
low  cooing  of  the  dove,  they  are  all  modified  by 
their  habits  of  support,  and  their  consequent  dispo- 
sitions. With  the  small  birds  the  voice  appears  to 
be  but  an  outpouring  of  gladness,  and  it  is  a  plea- 
sure to  see  that  without  one  articulate  word  it  is  so 
sweet  a  gift  to  them  ;  it  seems  a  necessary  vent  to 
their  joy  of  existence,  and  I  believe  in  my  heart  that 
a  dumb  bird  would  die  of  its  imprisoned  fulness. 

Nature  seems  never  so  utterly  still  to  me  as  in  the 
depths  of  a  summer  afternoon.  The  heat  has  driven 
in  the  birds,  and  the  leaves  hang  motionless  on  the 
trees,  and  no  creature  has  the  heart,  in  that  faint  sul- 
triness, to  utter  a  sound.  The  snake  sleeps  on  the 
rock,  and  the  frog  lies  breathing  in  the  pool,  and  even 
the  murmur  that  is  heard  at  night  is  inaudible,  for 
the  herbage  dioops  beneath  the  sun,  and  the  seed  has 
no  strength  to  burst  its  covering.  The  world  is 
still,  and  the  pulses  beat  languidly.  It  is  a  time  for 
sleep. 

But  if  you  would  hear  one  of  Nature's  most  vari- 
ed and  delicate  harmonies,  lie  down  in  the  edge  of 
the  wood  when  the  evening  breeze  begins  to  stir,  and 


90 


\-  O  I  C  E  S    OF    1'  H  E  T  R  U  E  -  H  E  A  R  T  E  D  . 


listen  to  its  coming.  It  touches  first  the  silver  foli- 
age of  the  birch,  and  the  slightly  hung  leaves,  at 
its  merest  breath,  will  lift  and  rustle  like  a  thousand 
tiny  wings,  and  then  it  creeps  up  to  the  tall  fir,  and 
the  fine  tassels  send  out  a  sound  like  a  low  whisper, 
and  as  the  oak  feels  its  influence,  the  thick  leaves 
stir  heavily,  and  a  deep  tone  comes  suddenly  out 
like  the  echo  of  a  far  oflT  bassoon.  They  are  all 
wind-harps  of  different  power,  and  as  the  breeze 
strengthens  and  sweeps  equally  over  them  all,  their 
united  harmony  has  a  wonderful  grandeur  and 
beauty. 

Then  what  is  more  soothing  than  the  dropping  ofthe 
rain?  You  should  have  slept  in  a  garret  to  know  how 
it  can  lull  and  bring  dreams.  How  I  have  lain,  when 
a  boy,  and  listened  to  the  fitful  patter  of  the  large 
drops  upon  the  roof,  and  held  my  breath  as  it  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  till  it  ceased  utterly,  and  I  heard 
nothing  but  the  rushing  of  the  strong  gust  and  the 
rattling  of  the  panes.  I  used  to  say  over  my  pray- 
ers and  think  of  the  apples  I  had  stolen  then  I  But 
were  you  ever  out  fishing  upon  a  lake,  in  a  smart 
shower  ?  It  is  like  the  playing  of  musical  glasses. 
The  drops  ring  out  with  a  clear,  bell-like  tinkle,  fol- 
lowing each  other  sometimes  so  closely  that  it  re- 
sembles the  winding  of  a  distant  horn  ;  and  then, 
in  the  momentary  intervals,  the  bursting  of  the  thou- 
sand tiny  bubbles  comes  stealthily  on  your  ear,  more 
like  the  recollection  of  a  sound  than  a  distinct  murmur. 
Not  that  I  fish;  I  was  ever  a  milky-hearted  boy,  and 
had  a  foolish  notion  that  there  was  pain  in  the  rest- 
less death  of  those  panting  and  beautiful  creatures  ; 
but  I  loved  to  go  out  with  the  old  men  when  the  day 
set  in  with  rain,  and  lie  dreamily  over  the  gunwale 
listening  to  the  changes  of  which  I  have  spoken.  It 
had  a  quieting  elTect  on  my  temper,  and  stilled  for 
awhile  the  uneasiness  of  that  vague  longing  that  is 
like  a  fever  at  a  boy's  heart. 

There  is  a  melancholy  music  in  Autumn.  The 
leaves  float  sadly  about  with  a  peculiar  look  of  deso- 
lateness,  wavering  capriciou-ly  in  the  wind,  and 
falling  with  a  just  audible  sound  that  is  a  very  sigh 
for  its  sadness  And  then,  when  the  breeze  is  fresher 
— though  the  early  autumn  months  arc  mostly  still — 
they  are  swept  on  with  a  cheerless  rustle  over  the 
naked  harvest  fields  and  about  in  the  eddies  of  the 
blast ;  and  though  I  have  sometimes,  in  the  glow  of 
exercise,  felt  my  life  securer  in  the  triumph  of  the 
brave  contrast,  yet  in  the  chill  of  evening,  or  when 
any  sickness  of  mind  or  body  w'as  upon  me,  the 
moaning  of  those  withered  leaves  has  pressed  down 
my  heart  like  a  sorrow,  and  the  cheerful  fire  and  the 
voices  of  my  many  sisters  might  scarce  remove  it. 

Then,  for  the  music  of  Winter.  1  love  to  listen 
to  the  falling  of  the  snow.  It  is  an  unobstrusive  and 
Bweet  music.  You  may  temper  your  heart  to  the 
serenest  mood  by  its  low  murmur.  It  is  that  kind 
of  music  that  only  intrudes  upon  your  ear  when  your 
thoughts  come  languidly.     You  need    not  hear  it  if 


your  mind  is  not  idle.  It  realizes  my  dream  of  an- 
other world, where  music  is  intuitive  like  a  thought, 
and  comes  only  when  it  is  remembered. 

And  the  frost,  too,  has  a  melodious  "ministry." 
You  will  hear  its  crystals  shoot  in  the  dead  of  a 
clear  night,  as  if  the  moonbeams  were  splintering 
like  arrows  on  the  ground  ;  and  you  listen  to  it  the 
more  earnestly  that  it  is  the  going  on  of  one  the  most 
cunning  and  beautiful  of  nature's  deep  mysteries.  I 
know  nothing  so  wonderful  as  the  shooting  of  a  crys- 
tal. Heaven  has  hidden  its  principle  as  jet  from  the 
inquisitive  eye  of  the  philosopher,  and  we  must  be 
content  to  gaze  on  its  exquisite  beauty,  and  listen  in 
mute  wonder  to  the  noise  of  its  invisible  workman- 
ship. It  is  too  fine  a  knowledge  for  us.  We  shall 
comprehend  it  when  we  know  how  the  "  morning 
stars  sang  together." 

You  would  hardly  look  for  music  in  the  dreari- 
ness of  the  early  winter.  I3ut  before  the  keener 
frosts  set  in,  and  while  the  warm  winds  are  yet  steal- 
ing back  occasionally,  like  regrets  of  the  departed 
summer,  there  will  come  a  soft  rain  or  a  heavy 
mist;  and,  when  the  north  winds  return,  there  will  be 
drops  suspended  like  ear-ring  jewels  between  the 
filaments  of  the  cedar  tassels  and  in  the  feathery 
edges  of  the  dark  green  hemlocks,  and,  if  the  clear- 
ing up  is  not  followed  by  a  heavy  wind,  they  will  all 
be  frozen  in  their  places  like  well-set  gems.  The 
next  morning  the  warm  sun  comes  out,  and  by  the 
middle  of  the  calm,  dazzling  forenoon,  they  are  all 
loosened  from  the  close  touch  which  sustains  them, 
and  will  dropat  the  lightest  motion.  If  you  go  along 
upon  the  south  side  of  the  wood  at  that  hour,  you 
will  hear  music.  The  dry  foliage  of  the  summer's 
shedding  is  scattered  over  the  ground,  and  the  hard 
round  drops  ring  out  clearly  and  distinctly  as 
they  are  shaken  down  with  the  stirring  of  the 
breeze.  It  is  something  like  the  running  of  deep 
and  rapid  water,  only  more  fitful  and  merrier  ;  but 
to  one  who  goes  out  in  nature  with  his  heart  open,  it 
is  a  pleasant  music,  and,  in  contrast  with  the  stern 
character  of  the  season,  delightful. 

Winter  has  many  other  sounds  that  give  pleasure 
to  the  seeker  for  hidden  sweetness  ;  but  they  are 
too  rare  and  accidental  to  be  described  distinctly. 
The  brooks  have  a  sullen  and  muffled  murmur  under 
their  frozen  surface;  the  ice  in  the  distant  river 
heaves  up  with  the  swell  of  the  current  and  falls 
again  to  the  bank  with  a  prolonged  echo,  and  the 
woodman's  axe  rings  cheerfully  out  from  the  bosom 
of  the  unrobed  forest.  These  are,  at  best, however, 
but  melancholy  sounds,  and,  like  all  that  meets  the 
eye  in  that  cheerless  season,  they  but  drive  in  the 
heart  upon  itself.  I  believe  it  is  so  ordered  in  hea- 
ven's wisdom.  Wc  forget  ourselves  in  The  entice- 
ment ofthe  sweet  summer.  Its  music  and  its  love- 
liness win  away  the  scenes  that  link  up  the  affec- 
tions, and  we  need  a  hand  to  turn  us  back  tenderly, 
and  hide  from  us  the   outward  idols  in  whose  wor- 


VOICESOF    THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


01 


ship  we  are  forgetting  the  higher  and  more  spiritual 
altars. 

Hitherto  I  have  spoken  only  of  the  sounds  of 
irrational  and  inanimate  nature.  A  better  than 
these,  and  the  best  music  under  heaven,  is  the  mu- 
sic of  the  human  voice.  I  doubt  whether  all  voices 
are  not  capable  of  it,  though  there  must  be  degrees 
in  its  beauty.  The  tones  of  affection  in  all  children 
are  sweet,  and  we  know  not  how  much  their  un- 
pleasantness in  after  life  may  be  the  effect  of  sin, 
and  coarseness,  and  the  consequent  habitual  expres- 
sion of  discordant  passions.  But  we  do  know  that 
the  voice  of  any  human  being  becomes  touching  by 
distress,  and  that  even  on  the  coarse-minded  and  the 
low,  religion  and  the  higher  passions  of  the  world 
have  sometimes  so  wrought,  that  their  eloquence  was 
like  the  strong  passages  of  an  organ.  I  have  been 
much  about  the  world,  and  with  a  boy's  unrest  and 
a  peculiar  thirst  for  novel  sensations,  have  mingled 
for  a  time  in  every  walk  of  life ;  yet  never  have  I 
known  manor  woman,  under  any  strong  feeling  that 
was  not  utterly  degraded,  whose  voice  did  not 
deepen  to  a  chord  of  grandeur,  or  soften  to  ca- 
dences to  which  a  harp  might  have  been  swept  plea- 
santly. It  is  a  perfect  instrument  as  it  comes  from 
the  hand  of  its  Maker,  and,  though  its  strings  may 
reLix  with  the  atmosphere,  or  be  injured  by  misuse 
and  neglect,  it  is  always  capable  of  being  re-strung 
to  its  compass,  until  its  frame  is  shattered. 

Men  have  seldom  musical  voices.  Whether  it  is 
that  their  passions  are  coarser,  or  that  their  life  of 
caution  and  reserve  shuts  up  the  kindliness  from  which 
it  would  spring,  a  pleasant  masculine  voice  is  one  of 
the  rarest  gifts  of  our  sex.  Whenever  you  do  meet  it, 
however,  it  is  always  accompanied  either  by  noble 
qualities,  or  by  that  peculiar  capacity  for  under, 
standing  all  characteis,  which  Goethe  calls  a  "  pre- 
sentiment of  the  universe,"  and  which  enables  its  pos- 
sessor, without  a  spark  of  a  generous  nature  himself, 
to  know  perfectly  what  it  is  in  others,  and  to  de- 
ceive the  world  by  assuming  all  its  accompany- 
ments  and  all  its  outwardy  evidence.  I  speak  now, 
and  throughout  these  remarks,  only  of  the  conversa- 
tional tone.  A  man  may  sing  never  so  well,  and 
still  speak  execrably ;  and  I  rarely  have  known  a 
person  who  conversed  musically,  to  sing  even  a 
tolerable  song. 

A  good  tone  is  generally  the  gift  of  a  gentleman, 
for  it  is  alwaj''s  low  and  deep;  and  the  vulgar  never 
possess  the  serenity  and  composure  from  which  it 
alone  can  spring;  they  are  always  busy  and  hurried, 
and  a  high,  sharp  tone  becomes  habitual. 

There  is  nothing  like  a  sweet  voice  to  win  upon 
the  confidence.  It  is  the  secret  of  the  otherwise  unac- 
countable success  of  some  men  in  society.  They  never 
talk  for  more  than  one  to  hear,  and  to  that  one,  if  a 
woman,  and  attractive,  it  is  a  most  dangerous,  because 
unsuspected  spell ;  and  every  one  knows  how  the 
'oice  softens  instinctively  with  the  knowledge  that  but 


one  car  listens,  and  ihat  it  is  addressed  without  a  wit- 
ness to  one  who  cannot  stand  aside  from  herself  and 
separate  the  enchanter  from  his  music.  It  is  an  insidi- 
ous and  heguiling  power;  and  I  have  seen  men  who, 
without  any  jiretensions  to  dignity  or  imposing  address, 
would  arrest  attention  the  moment  their  voices  were 
heard,  and  who,  if  they  leaned  over  to  murmur  in  a 
woman's  ear,  were  certain  of  [)leasin)^,  though  there- 
mark  were  the  very  idlest  coinmon-[)lace  of  conve.sa- 
tion. 

A  sweet  voice  is  iiidispcnsahlc  lo  a  woinnn.  I  do 
not  think  I  can  describe  it.  It  can  be,  and  sometimes 
is,  cultivated.  It  is  not  inconsistent  with  great  vivaci- 
ty, but  it  is  oftener  the  gift  of  the  quiet  and  unobtru- 
sive. Loudness  or  rapidity  of  utterance  is  incompati- 
ble with  it.  It  is  low,  but  not  guttural  ;  deliberate, 
but  not  slow.  Every  syllable  is  distinctly  heard,  but 
they  follow  each  other  like  drops  of  water  from  a  foun- 
tain. It  is  like  the  cooing  of  the  dove — not  siirill,  nor 
even  clear,  but  uttered  with  the  subdued  and  touching 
readiness  whicii  every  voice  assumes  in  moments  of 
deep  feeling  or  tenderness.  It  is  a  glorious  gift  in  wo- 
man. I  should  be  won  by  it  more  than  by  beauty — 
more  even  than  by  talent,  were  it  possible  to  sepa- 
rate them.  But  I  never  heard  a  deep,  sweet  voice  from 
a  weak  woman.  It  is  the  organ  of  strong  feeling,  and 
of  thoughts  which  have  lain  in  the  bosom  till  their  sa- 
credness  almost  hushes  utterance.  I  remember  listen- 
ing in  the  midst  of  a  crowd,  many  years  ago,  to  the 
voice  of  a  girl — a  mere  child  of  sixteen  summers — till 
I  was  bewildered.  She  was  a  pure,  high-hearted,  im- 
passioned creature,  without  the  least  knowledge  of  the 
world,  or  her  peculiar  gift ;  but  her  own  thoughts 
had  wrought  upon  her  like  the  hush  of  a  sanctuary, 
and  she  spoke  low  as  if  with  an  unconscious 
awe.  I  could  never  trifle  in  her  presence.  My  non- 
sense seemed  out  of  place,  and  my  practical  assu- 
rance forsook  me  utterly.  She  is  changed  now.  She 
has  been  admired,  and  found  out  her  beauty,  and  the 
music  of  her  tone  is  gone.  She  will  recover  it  by  and 
by,  when  the  delirium  of  the  world  is  over,  and  she 
begins  to  rely  upon  her  own  thoughts  for  company  ; 
but  her  extravagant  spirits  have  broken  over  the  thrill- 
ing timidity  of  childhood,  and  the  charm  is  unwound. 

There  was  a  lady  whom  I  used  to  meet  when  a  boy, 
as  I  loitered  to  .school  with  my  satchel  in  the  summer 
mornings,  and  of  whom,  by  and  by,  I  came  to  dream, 
night  and  day,  with  a  boy's  impassioned  and  indefinite 
longing.  She  was  a  married  women,  perhaps  twenty 
years  older  than  I,  but  very — very  beautiful.  She  was 
like  one's  idea  of  a  Countess— large,  but  perfectly 
light  and  graceful,  with  an  eye  of  inexpressible  soft- 
ness and  languor.  I  was  certain  she  had  a  low,  deli- 
cious tone,  and  as  she  passed  me  in  the  street,  I  used 
to  fancy  how  the  words  must  linger  and  melt  on  that 
red  lip,  with  its  deep-colored  and  voluptuous  fulness. 
Years  after,  when  I  had  become  a  man,  I  was  introdu- 
ced to  her.  I  made  som.e  passing  remark,  and  with  my 
boyish  impression  siill  floating  in  my  mind,  waited  al- 
most breathlessly  for  her  answer.  When  she  did  speak 


92 


VOICES   OF   THE   T  R  U  E  -  H  E  A  R  T  E  D 


I  was  perfectly  electrified.  Such  a  wonderful  rapidity 
of  utterance,  such  a  volume  of  language,  I  never  heard 
froai  the  lips  of  a  woman.     My  dream  was  over. 

It  was  aKvays  a  wonder  to  me,  that  the  voice  is  so 
neglected  in  a  fashionable  education.  There  is  a  pow- 
er in  it  over  men,  greater  even  than  manner,  for  it  is 
never  suspected.  Nothing  repels  like  indillerence,  and 
indifference  is  a  loud  talker,  to  whom  any  body  may 
listen,  and  whom,  therefore,  nobody  cares  to  hear.  Bui 
a  low  tone  is  redolent  of  the  great  secret  of  a  woman's 
power — reliance!  Nothing  wins  like  reliance.  Be  il 
in  manner  or  tone,  il  is  alike  irresistible.  I  have  seen 
a  woman  who  would  captivate  most  men  by  sin)ply 
leaning  on  their  arm.  It  was  the  only  thing  she  knew, 
and  she  did  that  beautifully.  It  said  more  plainly  than 
she  could  have  spoken  it,  "  I  confide  in  you  utterly  ;" 
and  who,  that  had  not  been  initiated,  could  resist  such 
an  appeal  1  There  is  something  in  words  spoke  soft- 
ly, and  meant  for  one's  car  alone,  which  touches  the 
heart  like  enchantment.  I  never  linger  by  a  low- 
voiced  woman  if  she  is  not  young.  It  indicates  either 
a  childlike  innocence  and  truth,  or  it  is  the  practised 
witchery  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  who  knows  too 
well  for  me  the  secret  of  her  power. 

There  arc  circumstances  in  which  the  sim[)lesl  sound 
becomes  awful.  I  once  watched  with  a  dying  friend 
in  a  solitary  farm-house.  It  was  a  clear  still  night  in 
December,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  be- 
yond his  just  audible  breathing.  It  wanted  but  a  quar- 
ter to  one,  and  I  began  to  anticipate  the  striking  of  the 
large  clock  which  stood  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
room  in  which  I  sat.  It  was,  at  first,  simply  with 
reference  to  my  friend's  comfort,  for  he  was  in  a  gen- 
tle doze,  and  I  feared  it  might  wake  him  from  the  only 
sleep  he  had  got  that  night.  I  sat  looking  at  the  clock. 
The  minute  hand  crept  slowly  on.  I  began  to  feel  an 
nervous  interest  in  its  progress,  and,  as  it  advanced 
visibly,  I  leaned  over  and  grasped  more  firmly  the  arm 
of  the  huge  chair.  As  it  grew  near,  a  strange  fear  be- 
gan to  curdle  my  blood,  and  I  could  feci  my  hair  stir, 
as  if  each  individual  filament  were  withering  at 
the  root.  It  cre[)t  on — and  on.  There  was  but  one 
minute  left  !  I  felt  a  smothering  sensation  at  my 
heart,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  my  life  must  stop.  But 
that  one  minute  seemed  tome  an  hour.  Before  it  had 
expired,  every  event  of  my  life  had  rushed  through  my 
memory,  and  the  awful  responsibility  of  lime,  and  the 
aggregate  of  pain,  and  despair,  and  agony,  that  was 
fell  by  the  hundreds  that  were  dying  at  thai  moment, 
and  the  guilt  that  was  festering  in  the  darkness  the 
hearts  of  those  who  may  not  sleep,  and,  over  all,  my 
own  thoughtless  and  immeasurable  prodigality  of 
time,  and  health,  and  opportunity,  crowded  into  my 
soul,  as  if  its  capacity  were  equal  to  the  concentrated 
anguish  of  a  demon.  'I'he  machinery  at  last  began  to 
stir.  It  seemed  to  me  that  every  vein  in  my  body  was 
an  icy  worm.  My  nerves  stretched  to  an  intenser 
pitch — large  drops  of  sweat  rolled  from  my  forehead, 
and  my  heart  stopped — almost.  It  struck  !  and  I  fell 
back  in  my  chair,  in  a  paroxysm  of  hysterical  laugh- 
ter I  I  have  watched  often  since,  and  have  been  in  situ- 


ations far  more  calculated  to  excite  terror,  but  nothing 
ever  overcome  me  like  that  solitary  vigil.  I  bad  been 
up  night  after  night  with  my  friend,  and  was 
certainly  much  unnerved  by  fatigue  and  exhaus- 
tion ;  but  the  circumstance  furnishes  matter  of  specu- 
lation to  the  inquirer  after  the  phenomena  of  human 
nature. 

The  music  of  church  bells  has  become  a  matter  of 
poetry.  Thomas  Moore,whose  mere  sense  of  beauty  is 
making  hira  religious,  and  who  knows  better  than  any 
other  man  what  is  beautiful — has  sung  "  those  even- 
ing bells"  in  some  of  tliemost  melodious  of  his  elabo- 
rate stanzas.  I  remember,  though  somewhat  imper- 
fectly, a  touching  story  connected  with  the  church  bells 
in  a  town  of  Italy,  which  had  become  famed  all  over 
Europe  for  their  peculiar  solemnity  and  sweetness. 
They  were  made  by  a  young  Italian  arlizan,  and  were 
his  heart's  pride.  During  the  war,  the  place  was  sack- 
ed and  the  bells  carried  off,  no  one  knew  whither.  Af- 
ter the  tumult  was  over,  the  poor  fellow  returned  to 
his  work  ;  but  it  had  been  the  solace  of  his  life  to  wan- 
der about  at  evening  and  listen  to  the  chime  of  his 
bells,  and  he  grew  dispirited  and  sick,  and  pined  for 
ihcm  till  he  could  no  longer  bear  it,  and  left  his  home, 
de'termined  to  wander  over  the  world  and  hear  them 
once  again  before  he  died.  He  went  from  land  to 
land,  stopping  in  every  village,  till  the  hope  that  alone 
sustained  him  began  to  falter,  and  he  knew  at  last  that 
he  was  dying.  He  lay  one  evening  in  a  boat  that  was 
slowly  floating  down  the  Rhine,  almost  insensible,  and 
scarce  expecting  to  see  the  sun  rise  again,  that  was 
now  setting  gloriously  over  the  vine-covered  hills  of 
Germany.  Presently,  the  vesper  bells  of  a  distant 
village  began  to  ring,  and  as  the  chimes  stole  faintly 
over  the  river  with  the  evening  breeze,  he  started  from 
his  lethargy.  He  was  not  mistaken  ;  it  was  the  deep, 
solemn,  heavenly  music  of  his  own  bells  ;  and  the 
sounds  that  he  had  thirsted  for  years  to  hear,  were 
melting  over  the  water.  He  leaned  from  the  boat,  with 
his  ear  close  to  the  calm  surface  of  the  river,  and  lis- 
tened. They  rang  out  their  hymn  and  ceased — and 
he  still  lay  motionless  in  his  painful  posture.  His  com- 
panions spoke  to  him,  but  he  gave  no  answer — his 
spirit  had  followed  the  last  sound  of  the  vesper  chime. 

There  is  something  exceedingly  impressive  in  the 
breaking  in  of  church  bells  on  the  stillness  of  the  Sab- 
bath. I  doubt  whether  it  is  not  more  so  in  the  heart 
ofa  populous  city  than  anywhere  rise.  The  presence 
of  any  single,  strong  feeling,  in  the  minds  of  a  great 
people,  has  something  of  awfulness  in  it  which  ex- 
ceeds even  the  impressiveness  of  Nature's  breathless 
Sabbath.  I  know  few  things  more  imposing  than  to 
walk  the  street  ofa  city  when  the  peal  of  the  caily  bells 
is  just  beginning.  The  deserted  pavements,  the  closed 
windows  of  the  places  of  business,  the  decent  gravity 
of  the  solitary  passenger,  and,  over  all,  the  feeling  in 
your  own  bosom  that  the  fear  of  God  is  brooding  like 
a  great  shadow  over  the  thousand  human  beings  who 
are  sitting  still  in  their  dwellings  around  you,  were 
enough,  if  there  were  no  other  circumstance,  to  hush 
the  heart  into  a  religiouo  fear.    But  when  the  bells  peal 


VOICES  OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED 


93 


out  suddenly  with  a  summons  to  the  temple  of  God, 
and  their  echoes  roll  on  tlirough  the  desolate  streets, 
and  are  unanswered  hy  tiie  sound  of  any  human 
voice,  or  the  din  of  any  human  occupation,  the  effiicl 
has  sometimes  seemed  to  me  more  solemn  than  the 
near  thunder. 

A  more  beauiiful,  and  perhaps  quite  as  salutary  as 
a  religious  influence,  is  the  sound  of  a  distant  Sabbath 
bell  in  the  country.  It  comes  floating  over  the  hills  like 
the  going  abroad  of  a  spirit,  and  as  the  leaves  stir  with 
its  vibrations,  and  the  drops  of  the  dew  tremble  in  the 
cups  of  the  flowers,  you  could  almost  believe  that  there 
was  a  Sabbath  in  Nature,  and  that  the  dumb  works  of 
God  rendered  visible  worship  for  his  goodness.  The 
effect  of  Nature  alone  is  purifying,  and  its  thousand 
evidences  of  wisdom  are  too  eloquent  of  their  Maker 
not  to  act  as  a  continual  lesson  ;  but  combined  with 
the  instilled  piety  of  childhood,  and  the  knowledge  of 
the  inviolable  holiness  of  the  time,  the  mellow  ca- 
dences of  a  church  bell  give  to  the  hush  of  a  country 
Sabbath,  a  holiness  to  which  only  a  desperate  heart 
could  be  insensible. 

Yet,  after  all,  whose  ear  was  ever  «  filled  with 
hearing,"  or  whose  "eye  with  seeing]"  Full  as  the 
world  is  of  music — crowded  as  life  is  with  beauty 
which  surpasses,  in  its  mysterious  workmanship,  our 
wildest  dream  of  faculty  and  skill — gorgeous  as  is  the 
overhung  and  ample  sky,  and  deep  and  univcrs^al  as 
the  harmonies  are  which  are  wandeiing  perpetually  in 
the  atmosphere  of  this  spacious  and  beautiful  world — 
who  has  ever  heard  music  and  not  felt  a  capacity  for 
better!  or  seen  beauty,  or  grandeur,  or  delicate  cun- 
ning, without  a  feeling  in  the  inmost  soul  of  unreached 
and  unsatisfied  conceptions'?  I  have  gazed  on  the 
dazzling  loveliness  of  woman  till  the  value  of  my 
whole  existence  seemed  pressed  into  that  one  moment 
of  sight;  and  I  have  listened  to  music  till  my  tears 
came,  and  my  brain  swam  dizzily — yet,  when  I  had 
turned  away,  I  wished  that  the  woman  had  been  per- 
fecter  :  and  my  lips  parted  at  the  intensest  ravishment 
of  that  dying  music,  with  an  impatient  feeling  that  its 
spell  was  unfinished.  I  used  to  wonder,  when  I  was 
a  boy,  how  Socrates  knew  that  this  world  was  not 
enough  for  his  capacities,  and  that  his  soul,  therefore, 
was  immortal.     It  is  no  marvel  to  me  now. 


TO  COLUMBUS  DYING. 
From  the  German  of  Ochlenschlcegev. 

BY    "W.    H.    FURNESS. 

Soon  with  thee  will  all  be  over, 
Soon  the  voyage  will  be  begun, 

That  shall  bear  thee  to  discover 
Far  away  a  land  unknown — 

Land,  that  each  alone  must  visit, 
But  no  tidings  bring  to  men, 

For  no  sailor,  once  departed, 
Ever  hath  returned  again. 


No  carved  wood,  no  broken  branches, 

Ever  drift  from  that  far  wild  ; 
He  who  on  that  ocean  launches 

Meets  no  corse  of  angcl-child. 

All  is  mystery  before  thee; 

But  in  peace,  and  love,  and  faith, 
And  with  hope  attended,  sail'st  ihou 

Ofl"  upon  the  ship  of  Death. 

Undismayed,  my  noble  sailor, 

Spread  then,  spread  thy  canvass  out; 

Spirit!  on  a  sea  of  ether 

Soon  shalt  thou  serenely  float ! 

Where  the  deeps  no  plun:met  soundeth, 
Fear  no  hidden  breakers  there. 

And  the  fainiing  wings  of  angels. 
Shall  thy  bark  right  onward  bear. 

Quit  now,  full  of  heart  and  con)fort, 
These  Azores — they  are  of  earth  ; 

Where  the  rosy  clouds  are  parting. 
There  the  Blessed  Isles  loom  forth. 

Seest  thou  now  thy  San  Salvador? 

Him,  thy  Saviour,  thou  shalt  hail. 
Where  no  storms  of  earth  shall  reach  thee, 

Where  thy  hope  shall  no  more  fail. 


THE    FATHERLAND. 

BT    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

Where  is  the  true  man's  fatherland  1 
Is  it  where  he  by  chance  is  born  1 
Doth  not  the  yearning  spirit  scorn 

In  such  scant  borders  to  be  spanned  1 

Oh,  yes  !  his  fatherland  must  be 

As  the  blue  heaven  wide  and  free ! 

Is  it  alone  where  freedom  is. 

Where  God  is  God  and  man  is  man  1 
Doth  he  not  claim  a  broader  span 

For  the  soul's  love  of  home  than  this? 

Oh,  yes !  his  fatherland  must  be 

As  the  blue  heaven  wide  and  free! 

Where'er  a  human  heart  doth  wear 

Joy's  myrtle-wreath,  or  sorrow's  gyves. 
Where'er  a  human  spirit  strives 

After  a  life  more  pure  and  fair, 

There  is  the  true  man's  birth-place  grand. 

His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland  ! 

Where'er  a  single  slave  doth  pine. 

Where'er  one  man  may  help  another, — 
Thank  God  for  such  a  birthright,  brother,- 

That  spot  of  earth  is  thine  and  mine  ! 

There  is  the  true  man's  birth-place  grand, 

His  is  a  world-v^ide  fatherland  ! 


94 


VOICES      OF     THE     T  R  U  E- H  E  A  RTE  D  . 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 

Aye,  they  in  plodding  on  so  steadily 

Did  gain  a  heap  of  gold, 
While  I,  who  hurried  on  so  merrily, 

Gained  brighter  wealth  ten-fold. 

A  wealth  of  thought  and  cheerfulness, 

The  coinage  of  the  soul, 
And  more  than  all,  a  hope  to  bless, 

With  promise  fiU'd  my  bowl. 

They  ride  in  princely  chariots  proud, 
By  blooded  coursers  drawn, — 

They  feast  in  stately  halls  the  crowd 
01  friends  in  lace  and  lawn. 

My  carriage  is  the  wide-winged  thought. 

By  fancy  wheeled  above, — 
My  home  the  world-wide  space  unbought, 

My  feast  the  feast  of  love. 

They  labored  on  till  life  was  waning     " 

To  live  above  all  strife, — 
I  lived  the  whole,  the  present  gaining. 

And  with  me  cherish'd  life. 


COLD    WATER. 

BY  JOHN  PIEUPOXT. 

Shall  e'er  cold  water  be  forgot 

When  we  sit  down  to  dine  1 
O  no,  my  friends,  for  is  it  not 

Pour'd  out  by  hands  divine? 

Pour'd  out  by  hands  divine,  my  friends, 

Pour'd  out  by  hands  divine; 
From  springs  and  wells  it  gushes  forth, 

Pour'd  out  by  hands  divine. 

To  Beauty's  cheek,  tho'  strange  it  seems, 

'Tis  no  more  strange  than  true, 
Cold  water,  though  itself  so  pale, 

Imparts  the  rosiest  hue; 

Imparts  the  rosiest  hue,  my  friends. 

Imparts  the  rosiest  hue  ; 
Yes,  Beauty,  in  a  water-pail, 

Dotli  find  her  rosiest  hue. 

Cold  water,  too,  (tho'  wonderful, 

'Tis  not  less  true,  again) 
The  weakest  of  all  earthly  drinks, 

Doth  make  the  strongest  men  ; 

Doth  make  the  strongest  men,  my  friends, 

Doth  make  the  strongest  men  ; 
Then  let  us  take  the  weakest  drink. 

And  grow  tho  strongest  men. 


I've  seen  the  bells  of  tulips  turn 

To  drink  the  dro[)s  that  fell 
From  summer  clouds;  then  why  should  not 

The  two  lif.s  of  a  belle? 

'J'he  two  lips  of  a  belle,  my  friends, 

The  two  lips  of  a  belle  ; 
What  sweetens  more  than  water  pure 

'i'hc  two  lips  of  a  belle  ? 

The  sturdy  oak  full  many  a  cup 

Doth  hold  up  to  the  sky, 
To  catch  the  rain  ;  then  drinks  it  up, 

And  thus  the  oak  gets  high  ; 

'Tis  thus  the  oak  gets  high,  my  friends, 

'Tis  thus  the  oak  gets  high. 
By  having  water  in  its  cups, — 

Then  why  not  you  and  I  ? 

Then  let  cold  water  armies  give 

Their  banners  to  the  air; 
So  shall  the  boys  like  oaks  be  strong. 

The  girls  like  tulips  fair; 

The  girls  like  tulips  fair,  my  friends. 

The  girls  like  tulips  fair; 
The  boys  shall  grow  like  sturdy  oaks, 

The  girls  like  tulips  fair. 


A    GENTLE    STORY. 

Once  a  little  band  of  angels  descended  to  this 
earth,  and  wandered  over  its  beautiful  places  in 
search  of  something  so  purely  beautiful,  that  it  should 
be  an  acceptable  offering  before  the  throne  of  the 
Eternal.  And  many  things  fair  and  exquisite  arose 
in  their  path ; — sweet  delicate  flowers  and  little 
glistening  dew-drops;  diamonds  in  the  earth  ;  pearls 
in  the  sea  ;  stars  in  the  sky  ;  bright  things  gleaming 
and  flashing  everywhere ;  joyous  faces  and  graceful 
forms  moving  to  and  fro,  more  frequent  than  all,  and 
almost  more  beautiful.  But  the  angels  passed  on  ; 
for  nothing  which  can  fade  or  be  destroyed  is  wor- 
thy of  Heaven.  On,  on  they  wandered — on  through 
the  great  forests,  amid  the  deep  valleys,  over  the 
bright  seas,  searching  everywhere  for  that  lovely 
thing  that  was  to  add  fresh  beauty,  even  unto 
Heaven. 

At  length  they  stood  in  consultation  on  the  sea- 
shore, and  beheld  a  fisherman's  child  so  strangely, 
so  enchantingly  beautiful,  that  those  glorious  angels 
were  amazed,  and  bent  over  liim  in  silent  admira- 
tion.    At  length  their  leader  spake — 

'<  Shall  we  bring  a  mortal  and  perishing  gift  to 
the  throne  of  our  Immortal  Father." 

"  Our  High  Father  is  all  powerful.  He  could  give 
him  immortality,"  replied  another. 

"  Innocence  and  love  are  heavenly  beauties  ;  but 
they  can  live  only  in  Heaven.  Shall  we  not  snatch 
him  from  this  bad  world's  temptations?"  said  a 
third. 


VOICES    OF     THE     TRUE-HEARTED 


95 


Thus  spake  the  tender,  pitying  angels.  But  their 
leader  said — ;' There  is  a  beauty  far  transcending 
innocence — a  beauty  which  childhood  and  innocence 
may  never  possess.  Shall  we  wait,  my  brethren,  for 
this,  or  offer  to  our  God  an  imperfect  gift  ?" 

And  so  the  angels  waited  until  the  child  became  a 
man— for  to  immortal  spirits,  whose  inheritance  is 
eternal,  the  life  of  man  is  but  an  hour. 

Then  pain  and  sorrow  came  upon  the  man,  and 
drove  the  rose  from  his  cheek,  and  the  light  from  his 
heart ;  and  anguish  bowed  his  frame,  and  care  plant- 
ed furrows  on  his  brow.  Then,  when  all  his  soul 
was  dark,  the  angels  drew  near  and  whispered  of 
unspeakable  bliss,  so  that  his  heart  grew  strong  and 
earnest,  and  faith  was  the  first  gem  in  his  crown  of 
beauty.  Now  temptations  gathered  thickly  about 
him — now  his  guardians  hovered  near  his  path, 
watching  his  struggles,  answering  his  thoughts, 
raising  him  when  nearly  trodden  down,  yet  keeping 
him  encompassed  with  tribulations,  until  he  cast 
away  his  own  strength— and  the  beauty  of  humility 
w'as  perfected. 

Still  they  poured  temptation  upon  his  pathway — 
for  without  temptation  there  can  be  no  victory. 
Still,  as  he  rose  trium.phant  from  every  struggle,  his 
countenance  grew  more  angelic,  his  beauty  more 
godlike,  till  at  last,  when  they  had  breathed  into  his 
spirit  of  that  joy  with  which  they  were  filled,  and 
his  soul  melted  with  love  and  great  adoration,  they 
looked  with  awe  upon  their  work  and  pronounced  it 
fit  for  Heaven  I 

And  when  those  who  had  loved  him  looked  upon 
his  withered,  lifeless  form,  they  were  sad,  and 
mourned  his  departed  beauty.  And  it  was  so ;  for 
the  soul,  so  strengthened  and  purified — that  soul,  so 
intensely  beautiful,  w-hose  light  its  earthly  covering 
could  no  longer  obscure,  was  borne  rejoicing  by  the 
angels  to  the  throne,  resting  not  in  the  joy  of  spirits 
innocent  and  untried,  but  mounting  high,  higher,  to 
dwell  forever  in  the  presence  of  the  fountain  of  all 
joy,  and  all  truth,  and  all  knowledge,  and  all  glory. 

THE  GHOST-SEER. 

BY      JAJIES      RUSSELL      LOWELL. 

Ye  who,  passing  graves  by  night, 
Glance  not  to  the  left  nor  right. 
Lest  a  spirit  should  arise, 
Cold  and  white,  to  freeze  your  eyes, 
Some  weak  phantom,  which  your  doubt 
Shapes  upon  the  dark  without 
From  the  dark  within,  a  guess 
At  the  spirit's  deathlessness, 
Which  ye  entertain  with  fear 
In  your  self-built  dungeon  here, 
Where  ye  dance  and  shake  your  chain 
As  if  freedom  would  be  pain, — 
Ye  without  a  shudder  meet 
In  the  city's  noon-day  street, 


Spirits  sadder  and  more  dread 
Tlian  from  out  the  clay  hove  fled  : 
Spirits  buried  dark  and  deep 
In  a  grave  where  never  sleep, — 
The  cold  dew  of  Paradise, — 
Drops  upon  their  burning  eyes, 
Buried,  beyond  hope  or  light, 
In  the  body's  haunted  night! 

See  ye  not  that  woman  pale  ? 
There  are  bloodhounds  on  her  trail  ! 
Bloodhounds,  too,  all  gaunt  and  lean, 
For  the  soul  their  scent  is  keen. 
Want  and  Sin,  and  Sin  is  last. 
They  have  followed  far  and  fast ; 
Want  gave  tongue,  and,  at  her  howl, 
Sin  awakened  with  a  growl. 
'Twas  the  World,  and  the  World's  law 
Let  them  slip  and  cried.  Hurrah  ! 
Ah,  poor  girl  I  she  had  a  right 
To  a  blessing  from  the  light. 
Title  deeds  to  sky  and  earth 
God  gave  to  her  at  her  birth  ! 
But  before  they  were  enjoyed, 
Poverty  had  made  them  void, 
And  had  drunk  the  sunshine  up 
From  all  nature's  ample  cup. 
Leaving  her  a  first-born's  share 
In  the  dregs  of  darkness  there. 
Often,  on  the  sidewalk  bleak. 
Hungry,  all  alone,  and  weak. 
She  has  seen,  in  night  and  storm. 
Rooms  o'erflow  with  firelight  warm. 
Which  outside  the  window  glass 
Doubled  all  the  cold,  alas  I 
Till  each  ray  that  on  her  fell 
Stabbed  her  like  an  icicle. 
And  she  almost  loved  the  wail 
Of  the  bloodhounds  on  her  trail. 
Till  the  flood  becomes  her  bier. 
She  shall  feel  their  pantings  near, 
Close  upon  her  very  heels, 
'Spite  of  all  the  din  of  wheels  ; 
Shivering  on  her  pallet  poor, 
She  shall  hear  them  at  the  door 
Whine  and  scratch  to  be  let  in, 
Sister  bloodhounds,  Want  and  Sin  ! 

Hark !  that  rustle  of  a  dress, 
Stiff  with  lavish  costliness  ! 
Here  comes  one  whose  cheek  would  flush 
But  to  have  her  garments  brush 
'Gainst  the  girl  whose  fingers  thin 
Wove  the  weary  broidery  in ; 
Who  went  backward  from  her  toil, 
Lest  her  tears  the  silk  might  soil. 
And,  in  midnight  chill  and  murk. 
Stitched  her  life  into  the  work. 
Little  doth  the  wearer  heed 
Of  the  heart-break  in  the  brede ; 


96 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


A  hyena  by  her  side 
Skulks,  downlooking — it  is  Pride. 
He  digs  for  her  in  the  earth, 
Where  lie  all  her  claims  of  birth. 
With  his  foul  paws  rooting  o'er 
Some  long  buried  ancestor, 
Who,  most  like,  a  statue  won 
By  the  ill  deeds  he  had  done. 
Round  her  heart  and  round  her  brain 
Wealth  had  linked  a  golden  chain, 
Which  doth  close  and  closer  press 
Heart  and  brain  to  narrowness. 
Every  morn  and  every  night 
She  must  bare  that  bosom  white, 
Which  so  thrillingly  doth  rise 
'Neath  its  proud  embroideries. 
That  its  mere  heave  lets  men  know 
How  much  whiter  "tis  than  snow, — 
She  must  bare  it,  and,  unseen, 
Suckle  that  hyena  lean ; — 
Ah  I  the  fountain's  angel  shrinks. 
And  forsakes  it  while  he  drinks  ! 

There  walks  .Tiidas,  he  who  sold 
Yesterday  his  Jjord  for  gold, 
Sold  God's  presence  in  his  heart 
For  a  proud  step  in  the  Mart  ; 
He  hath  dealt  in  flosh  and  blood — 
At  the  Bank,  his  name  is  good. 
At  the  Bank,  and  only  there, 
'Tis  a  niarketahle  ware. 
In  his  eyes  that  stealthy  gleam 
Was  not  learned  of  sky  or  stream, 
But  it  has  the  cold,  hard  glint 
Of  new  dollars  from  the  Mint. 
Open  now  your  spirit's  eyes, 
Look  through  that  poor  clay  disguise 
Which  has  thickened,  day  by  day. 
Till  it  keeps  all  light  away. 
And  his  soul  in  pitchy  gloom 
Gropes  about  its  narrow  tomb. 
From  whose  dank  and  slimy  walls. 
Drop  by  drop  the  horror  falls. 
Look !  a  serpent,  lank  and  cold. 
Hugs  his  spirit,  fold  on  fold  : 
From  his  heart  all  day  and  night 
It  doth  suck  God's  blessed  light. 
Drink  it  will,  and  drink  it  must. 
Till  the  cup  holds  naught  but  dust  ; 
All  day  long  he  hears  it  hiss. 
Writhing  in  its  fiendish  bliss ; 
All  night  long  he  sees  its  eyes 
Flicker  with  strange  ecstasies. 
As  the  spirit  ebbs  away 
Into  the  absorbing  clay. 

Who  is  he  that  skulks,  afraid 
Of  ihc  trust  he  has  betrayed, 
Shuddering  if  perchance  a  gleam 
Of  old  nobleness  should  stream 


Through  the  pent,  unwholesome  room, 

Where  his  s^hrunk  soul  cowers  in  gloom, — 

Spirit  sad  beyond  the  rest 

By  more  instinct  for  the  Best  ? 

'Tis  a  poet  who  was  sent. 

For  a  bad  world's  punishment. 

By  compelling  it  to  see 

Golden  glimpses  of  To  Be, 

By  compelling  it  to  hear 

Songs  that  prove  the  angels  near  ; 

Who  was  sent  to  be  the  tongue 

Of  the  weak  and  spirit- wrung. 

Whence  the  fiery-winged  Despair 

In  men's  shrinking  eyes  might  flare. 

'Tis  our  hope  doth  fashion  us 

To  base  use  or  glorious  : 

He  who  might  have  been  a  lark 

Of  Truth's  morning,  from  the  dark 

Raining  down  melodious  hope 

Of  a  freer,  broader  scope, 

Aspirations,  prophecies. 

Of  the  spirit's  full  sunrise, — 

Chose  to  be  a  bird  of  night. 

Which,  with  eyes  refusing  light, 

Hooted  from  some  hollow  tree 

Of  the  world's  idolatry. 

'Tis  his  punishment  to  hear 

Fluttering  of  pinions  near, 

And  his  own  vain  W'ings  to  feel 

Drooping  downward  to  his  heel, 

All  their  grace  and  import  lost, 

Burthening  his  weary  ghost  : 

Ever  walking  by  his  side 

He  must  see  his  ange)  guide, 

M'ho  at  intervals  doth  turn 

Looks  on  him  so  sadly  stern. 

With  such  ever-new  surprise 

Of  hushed  anguish  in  her  eyes. 

That  it  seems  the  light  of  day 

From  around  him  shrinks  away. 

Or  drops  blunted  from  the  wall 

Built  around  him  by  his  fall. 

Then  the  mountains  whose  white  peaks 

Catch  the  morning's  earliest  streaks, 

He  must  see,  where  prophets  sit, 

Turning  East  their  faces  lit. 

Whence,  with  footsteps  beautiful. 

To  the  earth,  yet  dim  and  dull, 

They  the  gladsome  tidings  bring 

Of  the  sunlight's  hastening. 

Never  can  those  hills  of  bliss 

Be  o'erclimbed  by  feet  like  his  ! 

But  enough  I   Oh,  do  not  dare 
From  the  next  his  mask  to  tear. 
Which,  although  it  moves  about 
Like  a  human  form  without. 
Hath  a  soul  within,  I  ween. 
Of  the  vulture's  shape  and  mein. 


VOICES  OE  THE  TRUE  HEARTED. 


THE  LADY'S  DREAM. 

BY    TIIO:\IAS    HOOD. 

The  lady  lay  in  her  bed, 

Her  couch  so  warm  and  soft, 
But  her  sleep  was  restless  and  broken  still  ; 

For  turning  often  and  oft 
From  side  to  side,  she  muttered  and  moaned, 

And  toss'd  her  arms  aloft. 
At  last  she  started  up, 

And  gazed  on  the  vacant  air, 
With  a  look  of  awe,  as  if  she  saw 
Some  dreadful  phantom  there — 
And  then  in  the  pillow  she  buried  her   face 

From  visions  ill  to  bear. 
The  very  curtain  shook. 

Her  terror  was  so  extreme. 
And  the  light  that  fell  on  the  broider'd  quilt 

Kept  a  tremulous  gleam  ; 
And  her  voice  was  hollow,  and  shook  as  she  cried 

<  Oh  me  !  that  awful  dream  ! 
«  That  weary,  weary  walk, 

In  the  church-yard's   dismal  ground  ! 
And  those  horrible  things,  with  shady  wings, 

That  came  and  flitted  round, — 
Death,  death,  and  nothing  but  death, 

In  every  sight  and  sound  ! 
<  And  oh  !  those  maidens  young. 

Who  wrought  in  that  dreary  room, 
With  figures  drooping  and  spectres  thin, 

And  cheeks  without  a  bloom  ; — 
And  the  voice  that  cried,  "  For  the  pomp  of  piide. 

We  haste  to  an  early  tomb  ! 
"  For  the  pomp  and  pleasure  of  pride, 

We  toil  like  Afric  slaves, 
And  only  to  earn  a  home  at  last, 

Where  yonder  cypress  waves  ;'' — 
And  then  he  pointed — I  never  saw 

A  ground  so  full  of  graves  I 
And  still  the  cofiins  came. 

With  their  sorrowful  trains  and  slow  ; 
Coffin  after  coffin  still, 

A  sad  and  sickening  show ; 
From  grief  exempt,  I  never  had  dream'd 

Of  such  a  world  of  woe  ! 
«  Of  the  hearts  that  daily  break, 
Of  the  tears  that  hourly  fall, 
Of  the  many,  many  troubles  of  life 

That  grieve  this  earthly  ball — 
Disease  and  Hunger,  Pain  and  Want — 
But  now  I  dream'd  of  them  all  I 


'  For  the  blind  and  the  cripple  were  there. 
And  the  babe  that  pined  for  bread. 

And  the  houseless  man,  and  the  widow  poor 
W' ho  begged — to  bury  the  dead  ; 

The  naked,  alas,  that  I  might  have  clad, 
The  famished  I  might  have  fed  ! 

'  The  sorrow  I  might  have  soothed. 

And  the  unregarded  tears; 
For  many  a  thronging  shape  was  there. 

From  long  forgotten  years  ; 
Ay,  even  the  poor  rejected  Moor, 

Who  raised  my  childish  fears  ! 

'  Each  pleading  look,  that  long  ago 

I  scanned  with  a  heedless  eye  ; 
Each  face  was  gazing  as  plainly  there. 

As  when  I  passed  it  by ; 
Woe,  woe  for  me,  if  the  past  should  be 

Thus  present  when  I  die  I 

'  No  need  of  sulphurous  lake, 

No  need  of  fiery  coal, 
But  only  that  crowd  of  human  kind 

Who  wanted  pity  and  dole — 
In  everlasting  retrospect — 

Will  wring  my  sinful  soal  '. 

'  Alas  I   I  have  walked  through  life 

Too  heedless  where  I  trod  ; 
Nay,  helping  to  trample  my  fellow  worm, 

And  fill  the  burial  sod — 
Forgetting  that  even  the  sparrow  that  falls 

Is  not  unmark'd  of  God  ! 

<  I  drank  the  richest  draughts  : 

And  ate  whatever  is  good — 
Fish  and  flesh,  and  fowl  and  fruit. 

Supplied  my  hungry  mood  ; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  wretched  ones 

That  starve  for  want  of  food. 

'  I  dressed  as  the  nobles  dress, 

In  cloth  of  silver  and  gold, 
With  silk,  and  satin,  and  costly  furs, 

In  many  an  ample  fold  ; 
But  I  never  remembered  the  naked  limbs 

That  froze  with  winter's  cold. 

<  The  wounds  I  might  have  healed  ! 

The  human  sorrow  and  smart ! 
And  yet  it  never  was  in  my  soul 

To  play  so  ill  a  part ; 
But  evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  thought, 

As  well  as  want  of  Heart !' 


98 


V  O  I  C  K  S   OF   T  H  E   T  R  U  K  -  II  i:  A  R  T  E  D 


She  clasped  her  fervent  hands, 
And  the  tears  began  to  stream ; 

Large  and  bitter,  and  fast  they  fell, 
Remorse  was  so  extreme  : 

And  ypt,  oh  yet,  that  many  a  Dame, 
Would  dream  the  Lady's  Dream  I 


M  O  U  N  T  A  I  N    0  H  I  L  D  R  E  N  . 

BY   MARY  HOWITT. 

Dwellers  by  lake  and  hill  ! 
IVIerry  companions  of  ihe  bird  and  bee  ! 

Go  gladly  forth  and  drink  of  joy  your  fill, 
With  unconstrained  step  and  spirit  free  ! 

No  crowd  impedes  your  way  ; 
No  city  wall  proscribes  your  fuither  bounds  ; 

Where  the  wild  flock  can  wander,     e  may  stray. 
The  long  day    through,    'mid   summer    sights   and 
sounds. 

The  sunshine  and  the  flowers. 
And  the  old  trees  that  cast  a  solemn  shade ; 

The  pleasant  evening,  the  fresh  dewy  hours, 
And  the  green  hills  whereon  your  fathers  play'd  ; 

The  grey  and  ancient  peaks, 
Found  which  the  silent  clouds  hang  day  and  night; 

And  the  low  voice  of  water,  as  it  makes, 
Like  a  glad  creature,  murmurings  of  delight, — 

These  are  your  joys  I  go  forth, — 
Give  your  hearts  up  unto  their  mighty  power ; 

For  in  His  spirit  God  has  clothed  the  earth. 
And  speaketh  solemnly  from  tree  and  flower. 

The  voice  of  hidden  rills, 
Its  quiet  way  into  your  spirit  finds  ; 

And  awfully  the  everlasting  hills 
Address  you  in  their  many-toned  winds. 

Ye  sit  upon  the  earth, 
Twining  its  flowers,  and  shouting,  full  of  glee  ; 

And  a  pure  mighty  influence,  'mid  your  mirth, 
Moulds  your  unconscious  spirit  silently. 

Hence  is  it  that  the  lands 
Of  storm  and  mountain  have  the  noblest  sons; 

Whom  the  world  reverence— the  patriot  bands 
Were  of  the  hills  like  you,  ye  little  ones  ! 

Children  of  pleasant  song 
Are  taught  within  the  mountain  solitudes; 

For  hoary  legends  to  your  wilds  belong, 
And  yours  are  haunts  where  iuspiration  broods. 

Then  go  forth ;    earth  and  sky 
To  you  are  tributary  ;  joys  are  spread 

Profusely  like  the  summer  flowers  that  lie 
In  the  green  path  beneath  your  gamesome  tread  ! 


LETTER  TO  THE    UNKNOWN  PURCH.ASER 
AND  Ni:XT  OCCUPANT  OF  GLEN.MARY. 


Sir  :  In  selling  you  the  dew  and  sunshine  on'ain- 
ed  to  fall  hereafter  on  this  bright  spot  of  caith  — the 
waters  on  their  way  to  this  sparkling  brook  — the 
tints  mixed  for  the  flowers  of  that  enamelled  mea- 
dow, and  the  songs  bidden  to  be  sung  in  coming 
summers  by  the  feathery  builders  in  Glenmary,  I 
know  not  whether  to  wonder  more  at  the  omnipo- 
tence of  money,  or  at  my  own  impertinent  audacity 
toward  Nature.  How  you  can  buy  the  right  to  ex- 
clude at  will  every  other  creature  made  in  God's  im- 
age from  sitting  by  this  brook,  treading  on  that  car- 
pet of  flowers,  or  lying  listening  to  the  birds  in  the 
shade  of  these  glorious  trees— how  I  can  sell  it  you, 
is  a  mvstery  not  understood  by  the  Indian,  and  dark, 
I  must  say,  to  me. 

"  Lord  of  the  soil,"'  is  a  title  which  conveys  your 
privileges  but  poorly.  You  are  master  of  waters 
flowing  at  this  moment,  perhaps,  in  a  river  of  Judea, 
or  floating  in  clouds  over  some  spicy  island  of  the 
tropics,  bound  hither  after  many  changes.  There 
are  lilies  and  violets  ordered  for  you  in  millions, 
acres  of  sunshine  in  daily  instalments,  and  dew- 
nightly  in  proportion.  There  are  throats  to  be 
tuned  with  song,  and  wings  to  be  painted  with  red 
and  gold,  blue  and  yellow  ;  thousands  of  them.'and 
all  tributaries  to  you.  Your  corn  is  ordered  to  be 
sheathed  in  silk,  and  lilted  high  to  the  sun.  Your 
grain  is  to  be  duly  bearded  and  stemmed.  There  is 
perfume  distilling  for  your  clover,  and  juices  for  your 
grasses  and  fruits.  Ice  will  be  here  for  your  wine, 
shade  for  your  refreshment  at  noon,  breezes  and 
showers  and  snow-flakes ;  all  in  their  season,  and 
all  -'deeded  to  you  for  forty  dollars  the  acre  :"'  Gods! 
what  a  copyhold  of  property  for  a  fallen  world  ! 

Mine  has  been  but  a  short  lease  of  this  lovely  and 
well  endowed  domain  (the  duration  of  a  smile  of 
fortune,  five  years,  scarce  longer  than  a  five  act 
play)  ;  but  as  in  a  play  we  sometimes  live  through  a 
life,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  lived  a  life  at  Glenma- 
ry. Allow  me  this,  and  then  you  must  allow  me  the 
privilege  of  those  who,  at  the  close  of  life, leave  some- 
thing behind  them  :  that  of  writing  out  my  will.  , 
Though  I  depart  this  life,  I  would  fain,  like  others,  1 
extend  my  ghostly  hand  into  the  future  ;  and  if  wings 
are  to  be  borrowed  or  stolen  where  I  go,  you  may 
rely  on  my  hovering  around  and  haunting  you,  in  vi- 
sitations not  restricted  by  cock-crowing. 

Trying  to  look  at  Glenmary  through  your  eyes, 
sir,  I  see  too  plainly  that  I  have  not  shaped  my 
ways  as  if  expecting  a  successor  in  my  lifetime.  I 
did  not,  I  am  free  to  own.  I  thought  to  have  shuf- 
fled off  my  mortal  coil  tranquilly  here  ;  flitting  at 
last  in  company  with  some  troop  of  my  autumn 
leaves,  or  some  bevy  of  spring  blossoms,  or  with 
snow   in  the   thaw  ;  my  tenants   at  my  back,   as  a 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED 


99 


laiulbrd  may  say.     I  have  counted  on  a  life-interest 

ill  the  trees,  trimmin;^  them  accordingly;  and  in  the 
squirrels  and  birds,  encouraging  them  to  chatter  and 
build  and  fear  nothinj;;  no  guns  permitted  on  the 
premises.  I  have  had  my  will  of  this  beautiful 
stream.  I  have  carved  the  woods  into  a  shape  of 
my  liking.  I  have  propagated  the  despised  sumach 
and  the  persecuted  hemlock  and  "pizen  laurel."  And 
"  no  end  to  the  weeds  dug  up  and  set  out  again,'' 
as  one  of  my  neighbours  delivers  himself.  I  have 
built  a  bridge  over  Glenmary  brook,  which  the  town 
looks  to  have  kept  up  by  "  the  place,"  and  we  have 
plied  free  ferry  over  the  river,  1  and  my  man  Tom, 
till  the  neighbours,  from  the  daily  saving  of  Jihe 
two  miles  round,  have  got  the  trick  of  it.  And  be- 
twixt the  aforesaid  Glenmary  brook  and  a  certain 
muddy  and  plebeian  gutter  Ibrmerly  permitted  to 
join  company  with,  and  pollute  it,  I  have  procured  a 
divorce  at  much  trouble  and  pains,  a  guardian  duty 
entailed  of  course  on  my  successor. 

First  of  all,  sir,  let  me  plead  for  the  old  trees  of 
Glenmary  !  Ah  !  those  friendly  old  trees  I  The  cot- 
tage stands  belted  in  with  fhem,  a  thousand  visible 
from  the  door,  and  of  stems  and  branches  worthy  of 
the  great  valley  of  the  Susquehannah.  For  how 
much  music  played  without  thanks  am  I  indebted  to 
those  leaf-organs  of  changing  tone  ?  for  how  many 
whisperings  of  thought  breathed  like  oracles  into 
my  ear  ?  for  how  many  new  shapes  of  beauty 
moulded  in  the  leaves  by  the  wind  ?  for  how  much 
companionship,  solace,  and  welc;ome  ?  Steadfast 
and  constant  is  the  countenance  of  such  friends;  God 
be  praised  for  their  staid  welcome  and  sweet  fidelity  ! 
If  I  love  them  better  than  some  things  human,  it 
is  no  fault  ofambitiousness  in  the  trees.  1  hey  stand 
where  they  did.  But  in  recoiling  from  mankind, 
one  may  find  them  the  next  kindliest  things,  and  be 
glad  of  dumb  friendship.  Spare  those  old  trees, 
gentle  sir  ! 

In  the  smooth  walk  which  encircles  the  meadow 
betwixt  that  solitary  Olympian  sugar-maple  and  the 
margin  of  the  river,  dwells  a  portly  and  venerable 
toad ;  who  (if  I  may  venture  to  bequeath  you  my 
friends)  must  be  commended  to  your  kindly  consid- 
eration. Though  a  squatter,  he  was  noticed  in  our  first 
rambles  along  the  stream,  five  years  since,  for  his 
ready  civility  in  yielding  the  way  ;  not  hurriedly, 
however,  nor  with  an  obsequiousness  unbecoming  a 
republican,  but  deliberately  and  just  enough;  sitting 
quietly  on  the  grass  till  our  passing  by  gave  him 
room  again  on  the  warm  and  trodden  ground.  Punctu- 
ally after  the  April  cleansing  of  the  walk, 
this  jewelled  habitue,  from  his  indifferent  lodgings 
near  by,  emerges  to  take  his  pleasure  in  the  sun  ; 
and  there,  at  any  time  when  a  gentleman  is  likely  to 
be  abroad,  you  may  find  him,  patient  on  his  oscocct/- 
gls,  or  vaulting  to  his  asylum  of  long  grass.  This 
year,  he  shows,  I  am  grieved  to  remark,  an  ominous 
obesity,  likely  to  render  him  obnoxious  to  the  fe 


male  eye,  and,  with  the  trimness  of  his  shape,  has 

departed  much  of  that  measured  alacrity  which  first 
won  our  regard.  He  presumes  a  little  on  your  al- 
lowance for  old  age  ;  and  with  this  pardonable 
weakness  growing  upon  him,  it  seems  but  right  that 
his  position  and  standing  should  be  tenderly  made 
known  to  any  new-comer  on  the  premises.  In  the 
cutting  of  the  next  grass,  slice  me  not  up  my  fat 
friend,  sir  !  nor  set  your  cane  down  heedlessly  in 
his  modest  domain.  He  is  "  mine  ancient,"  and  I 
would  fain  do  him  a  good  turn  with  you. 

For  my  spoilt  family  of  squirrels,  sir,  I  crave 
nothing  but  immunity  from  powder  and  shot.  They 
require  coaxing  to  come  on  the  same  side  of  the  tree 
with  you,  and  though  saucy  to  me,  I  observe  that 
they  commence  acquaintance  invariably  with  a  safe 
mistrust.  One  or  two  of  them  have  suffered,  it  is 
true,  from  too  hasty  a  confidence  in  my  greyhound 
Maida,  but  the  beauty  of  that  gay  fellow  was  a  trap 
against  which  nature  had  furnished  them  with  no 
warning  instinct!  (A  fact,  sir,  which  would  pretti- 
ly point  a  moral  I)  The  large  hickory  on  the  edge 
of  the  lawn,  and  the  black  walnut  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  flower  garden,  have  been,  through  my  dynas- 
ty, sanctuaries  inviolate  for  squirrels.  I  pray  you, 
sir,  let  them  not  be  "  reformed  out"  under  your  ad- 
ministration. 

Of  our  feathered  connexions  and  friends,  we  are 
most  bound  to  a  pair  of  Phebe-birds  and  a  merry 
Bob  o'-Lincoln,  the  first  occupying  the  top  of  the 
young  maple  near  the  door  of  the  cottage,  and  the 
latter  executing  his  bravuras  upon  the  clump  of  al. 
der  bushes  in  the  meadow.,  though  in  common  with 
many  a  gay-plumaged  gallant  like  himself,  his 
whereabout  after  dark  is  a  dark  mystery.  He  comes 
every  year  from  his  rice-plantation  in  Florida  to 
pass  the  summer  at  Glenmary.  Pray  keep  him  safe 
from  percussion-caps,  and  let  no  urchin  with  a  long 
pole  poke  down  our  trusting  Phebes ;  annuals  in  that 
same  tree  for  three  summers.  There  are  humming- 
birds, too,  whom  we  have  complimented  and  looked 
sweet  upon,  but  they  can  not  be  identified  from 
morning  to  morning.  And  there  is  a  golden  oriole 
who  sings  through  May  on  a  dog  wood  tree  by  the 
brook  side,  but  he  has  fought  shy  of  our  crumbs  and 
coaxing,  and  let  him  go  !  We  are  mates  for  his  bet- 
ters.  with  all  his  gold  livery  !  With  these  reserva- 
tions, sir,  I  commend  the  birds  to  your  friendship 
and  kind  keeping. 

And  now  sir,  I  have  nothing  else  to  ask,  save  only 
your  watchfulness  over  the  small  nook  reserved  from 
this  purchase  of  seclusion  and  loveliness.  In  the 
shady  depths  of  the  small  glen  above  you,  among  the 
wild  flowers  and  music,  the  music  of  the  brook  bab- 
bling over  rocky  steps,  is  a  spot  sacred  to  love  and 
memory.  Keep  it  inviolate,  and  as  much  of  the 
happiness  of  Glenmary  as  we  can  leave  behind,  stay 
with  you  for  recompense  ! 


100 


VOICES    OF     TH  F.  TR  U  E  -  H  E  A  R  T  E  D. 


THE  ALDERMAN'S  FUNERAL. 

BY    ROBERT    SOUTH  i:Y. 

Slrangcr.     Vhom   are   they  ushering   from  the 
world,  with  all 
This  pageantry  and  long  parade  of  death  ? 

Townsman.  A  long  parade, indeed,  sir;  and  yet  here 
You  see  but  half ;  round  yonder  bend  it  reaches 
A  furlong  farther,  carriage  behind  carriage. 

Stranger.     It  is  but  a  mournful  sight,  and  yet  the 
pomp 
Tempts  me  to  stand  a  gazer. 

Townsman.     Yonder  schoolboy, 
Who  plays  the  truant,  says,  the  proclamation 
Of  peace  was  nothing  to  the  show ;   and  even 
The  chairing  of  the  members  at  election 
Would  not  have  been  a  finer  sight  than  this. 
Only  that  red  and  green  are  prettier  colours 
Than  all  this  mourning.     There,  sir,  you  behold 
One  of  the  red  gown'd  worthies  of  the  city, 
The  envy  and  boast  of  our  exchange, 
Ay,  who  was  worth,  last  week,  a  good  half  million, 
Screw'd  down  in  yonder  hearse. 

Stranger.     Then  he  was  born 
Under  a  lucky  planet,  who  to-day 
Puts  mourning  on  for  his  inheritance. 

Townsman.     When   fust  I  heard  his  death,  that 
very  wish 
Leap'd  to  my  lips  ;  but  now  the  closing  scene 
Of  the  comedy  has  waken'd  wiser  thoughts  ; 
And  1  bless  God,  that  when  I  go  to  the  grave. 
There  will  not  be  the  weight  of  wealth  like  his 
To  sink  me  down. 

Stranger.     The  camel  and  needle — 
Is  that,  then,  in  your  mind? 

Townsman.     Even  so.     The  text 
Is  gospel  wisdom.     I  would  ride  the  camel — 
Yea,  leap  him  flying  through  the  needle's  eye, 
As  easily  as  .such  a  pamper'd  soul 
Could  pass  the  narrow  gate. 

Stranger.      Your  pardon,  sir. 
But  sure  this  lack  of  Christian  charity 
Looks  not  like  Christian  truth. 

Townsman.     Your  pardon,  too,  sir, 
If  with  this  text  before  me,  I  should  feel 
In  the  preaching  mood!  But  for  these  barren  fig  trees, 
With  all  their  flourish  and  their  leafiness, 
We  have  been  told  their  destiny  and  use. 
When  the  axe  is  laid  unto  the  root,  and  they 
Cumber  the  earth  no  longer. 

Stranger.     Was  his  wealth 
Stored  fraudfully,  the  spoils  of  orphans  wronged, 
And  widows  who  had  none  to  jilead  their  right  ? 

Townsman.     All  honest,  open,  honourable  gains, 
Fair  legal  interest,  bonds  and  mortgages, 
Ships  to  the  east  and  west. 


Stranger.     M'hy  judge  yon,  then. 
So  harshly  of  the  dead  ? 

Townsman.     For  what  he  left 
Undone, — for  sins  not  one  of  which  is  mention'd 
In  the  tenth  commandments.     He,  I  warrant  him, 
Believed  no  other  gods  than  those  of  the  creed. 
Bowed  to  no  idols — but  his  money-bags : 
Swore  no  false  oaths,  except  at  the  custom  house; 
Kept  the  sabbath  idle  ;  built  a  monument 
'i"o  honour  his  dead  father ;  did  no  murder; 
Never  pick'd  po:kets  ;  never  bore  false  witness; 
And  never,  wih  that  all-commanding  wealth. 
Coveted  his  neighbour's  house,  nor  ox,  nor  ass. 

Stranger.     You  knew  him,  then,  it  seems. 

Townsman.     As  all  men  know 
The  virtues  of  your  hundred-thousanders; 
They  never  hide  their  lights  beneath  a  bushel. 

Stranger.     Nay,  nay,  uncharitable  sir'  for  often 
Doth  bounty  like  a  streamlet  flow  unseen, 
Fresh'ning  and  giving  life  along  its  source. 

Tomiisman.  We  track  the  streamlet  by  the  brigher 

green 
And  livelier  growth  it  gives  ;  but  as  for  this — 
'J'he  rains  of  heaven  engcnder'd  nothing  in  it 
But  slime  and  foul  corruption. 

Stranger.     Yet  even  these 
Are  reservoirs,  w'hence  public  charity 
Still  keeps  her  channels  full. 

Townsman.     Now,  sir,  you  touch 
Upon  the  point.     This  man  of  half  a  million 
Had  all  these  public  virtues  which  you  praise — 
But  the  poor  man  rung  never  at  his  door; 
And  the  old  beggar,  at  the  public  gate. 
Who,  all  the  summer  long,  stands  hat  in  hand, 
He  knew  how  vain  it  was  to  lift  an  eye 
To  that  hard  face.     Yet  he  was  always  found 
Among  yourten,  and  twenty  pound  subscribers, 
Your  benefactors  in  the  newspapers. 
His  alms  were  money  put  to  interest 
In  the  other  world,  donations  to  keep  open 
A  running-charity  account  with  heaven  ; 
Retaining  fees  against  the  last  assizes, 
When,  for  the  trusted  talents,  strict  account 
Shall  be  required  from  all,  and  the  old  arch  lawyer 
Plead  his  own  cause  as  plaintiff. 

Stranger.     I  must  needs 
Believe  )'ou,  sir  ;  these  are  your  witnesses, 
These  mourners  here,  who  from  their  carriages 
Gape  at  the  gaping  crowd.     A  good  March  wind 
Were  to  be  prayed  for  now,  to  lend  their  eyes 
Some  decent  rheum.     The  very  hireling  mute 
Bears  not  a  face  blanker  of  all  emotion 
Than  the  old  servant  of  the  family ! 
IIow  can  this  man  have  lived,  that  thus  his  death 
Cost  not  the  soiling  of  one  handkerchief! 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


101 


Townsman.     Who  should  lament  for  him,  sir,  in 
whose  heart 
Love  had  no  place,  nor  natural  charity? 
The  parlour  spiniel,  when   she  heard  his  step, 
Rose  slowly  from  the  hearth  and  stole  aside 
With  creeping  pace;  she  never  raised  her  eyes 
To  woo  kind  word  from  him,  nor  laid  her  head 
Upraised  upon  his  knee,  with  fondling  whine. 
How  could  it  be  hut  thus  ?     Arithmetic 
Was  the  sole  science  he  was  ever  taught; 
The  multiplication  table  was  his  creed, 
His  paternoster  and  his  decalogue. 
"When  yet  he  was  a  boy,  and  should  have  breathed 
The  open  air  and  sunshine  of  the  fields, 

o  give  his  blood  its  natural  spring  and  play. 
He  in  a  close  and  dusty  counting  house, 
Smoke-dried,  and  seared,  and  shrivelled  up  his  heart. 
So  from  the  way  in  which  he  was  train'd  up, 
His  feet  departed  not ;  he  toil'd  and  moil'd. 
Poor  muckworm!  through  his  threscore  years  and  ten; 
And  when  the  earth  shall  now  be  shovelled  on  him. 
If  that  which  served  him  for  a  soul  were  still 
Within  its  husk,  'twould  still  be  dirt  to  dirt. 

Stranger.  Yet  your  next  newspaper  will  blazon  him 
For  industry  and  honourable  wealth 
A  bright  example. 

Townsman.     Even  half  a  million 
Gets  him  no  other  praise.     Eut  come  this  way 
Some   twelvemonths  hence,  and   you  will  find   his 

virtues 
Trimly  set  forth  in  lapidary  lines. 
Faith  with  her  torch  beside,  and  little  Cupids 
Dropping  upon  the  urn  their  marble  tears. 


MY    CHILD. 

BY     JOHN     PIERPONT. 

I  cannot  make  him  dead  ! 

His  fair  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair  ; 

Yet  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears,  I  turn  to  him. 
The  vision  vanishes — he  is  not  there  ! 

I  walk  my  parlor  floor. 

And,  through  the  open  door, 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair  ; 

I'm  stepping  toward  the  hall, 

To  give   the  boy  a  call ; 
And  then  bethink  me  that — he  is  not  there  ! 

I  thread  the  crowded  street  : 

A  satchel'd  lad  I  meet 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colored  hair 

And,  as  he's  running  by. 
Follow  him  with  my  eye, 
Scarcely  believing  that — he  is  not  there  ! 


I  know  his  face  is  hid 

Under  the  coffin  lid  ; 
Closed  are  his  eyes;  cold  is  .lis  forcht-ad  fair  ; 

]\Iy  hand  that  marble  felt  ; 

O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt ; 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that  -he  is  not  there  ! 

I  cannot  mal^e  him  d     I  ' 

When  passing  by  his  bed, 
So  loi.g  watched  over  with  parental  care. 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Seek  it  inquiringly. 
Before  the  thought  comes  that — he  is  not  there 

When  at  the  cool,  grey  break 

Of  day  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  m     ning  air. 

My  soul  goes  up  with  joy. 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy  ; 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not  there  ! 

When  at  the  day's  calm  close. 

Before  we  seek  repose, 
I'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer; 

What'er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am,  in  spirit,  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  praying — he  is  not  there ! 

Not  there  ? — Where,  then,  is  he  ? 

The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raim  n:  that  he  used  to  wear  ; 

The  grave  that  now  doth  press 

Upon  that  cast  off"  dress. 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked — he  is  not  there  I 

He  lives  I — in  all  the  past 

He  lives  !  nor  to  the  last. 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair ; 

In  dreams  I  see  him  now  ; 

And  on  his  angel  brow, 
I  see  it  written,   "  Thou  shalt  see  me  there  .'" 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God  ! 

Father,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afl[iicted  ones,  to  bear  ; 

That  in  the  spirit  land. 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  that— he  is  there  / 


THE  DEW-DROP. 

BY  RICHARD    CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 

A  dewdrop  falling  on  the  wild  sea  wave, 
Exclaimed  in  fear — "  I  perish  in  this  grave;" 
But  in  a  shell  received,  that  drop  of  dew 
Unto  a  pearl  of  marvellous  beauty  grew; 
And,  happy  now,  the  grace  did  magnify 
Which  thrust  it  forth — as  it  had  feared,  to  die  ;- 
Until  again,  "  I  perish  quite,"  it  said, 
Torn  by  rude  diver  from  its  ocean  bed  : 
O  unbelieving  !  so  it  came  to  gleam 
Chief  jewel  in  a  monarch's  diadem. 


102 


V  0  I  C  K  S   OF   THE    T  R  U  E  -  II E  A  R  T  E  D 


A  COMMISSION  OF  LUNACY. 

BY    CHARLES    F.    BKIGGS 

I  was  once  called  to  decide  upon  the  case  of  a  per- 
son who  was  thought  by  his  friends  to  be  insane. 
He  had  been  sent  to  a  mad-hoiise,  and  in  one  of  his 
Jucid  intervals  had  demanded  a  trial  of  the  county 
judge,  and  a  trial  was  granted.  A  jury  of  six  men, 
of  whom  I  was  one,  were  to  decide  upon  his  case. 
He  was  a  healthy  looking  gentleman,  with  nothing 
unusual  in  his  apjiearance  excepting  a  restlessness 
of  his  eyes,  which  might  not  have  been  observed  had 
he  not  been  accused  of  insanity.  The  proofs  of  his 
madness  were  very  clear,  but  he  showed  so  much 
coolness  and  clear  thinking  in  his  cross-questioning 
of  witnesses,  that  I  felt  some  hesitation  in  pronounc- 
ing him  unsound  of  mind.  His  case  was  a  very  sad 
one,  and  he  melted  the  hearts  of  all  who  heard  him 
when  he  appealed  to  the  jury. 

"  I  deny  that  I  am  insane,  gentlemen,"  he   said, 
when  the  Judge  gave  him  leave  to  speak,   "  but  that 
is  a  matter  of  course.     No  man  ever  thought  himself 
insane  ;  neither  can  any  man  ever  think  himself  so ; 
for,  having  no  standard  of  soundness  but  what  exists 
in  his  own  mind,    he  cannot  be  unsound  to  himself, 
though  he  may  be  manifestly  so  in  the  mind  of  ano- 
ther.     But  who  shall  determine  what  is  madness 
and  what  is  not  ?       Be  careful,  gentlemen,  how  you 
pronounce  me  mad,  lest  to-morrow  I  be  called  to  pro- 
nounce you  so.     The  proofs  that  have  been  offered  to 
you  of  my  madness,  are  to  me  proofs  of  entire  sound- 
ness of  mind.     I  would  be  mad  were  I  anything  dif- 
ferent from  what  I   have  been  represented.      'I"hey 
have  brought  three  physicians,   who   all  say  that  I 
am  mad.      Yet  I  will  compel  you  to  admit  that  the 
madness  is  in  them  and  not  in  me.     I  was  sick,  very 
sir  k,  sick  at  heart,  for  you  must  know  that  I  had  lost 
my  Bessy  and  my  little  boy — my  little  boy."    Here 
the  unfortunate  hesitated  and  seemed   to  lose  him- 
self entirely.      "  I  said  that  I  was  sick,   but  it  was 
I3essy.      But  it  must  have   been  me.      Yes,   I  was 
sick,  very  sick,  sick  at  heart,  for  my  little  boy  and 
Bessy.    Bessy  again.     Yes,  Bessy  had  been  sick,  but 
now  it  was  I.      I  was  sick,  and  they  brought  me  a 
physician.       He  felt  my  pulse,  he  looked  upon  me 
with   his  cold  gray  eyes,   and  then  reached  me  a 
tumbler  half  full  of  a  nauseous  liquid,  which  he  said 
would  quiet  me,  and  do  me  good.      But  all  the  while 
I  was  quieter  than  a  rock,  and  colder,  and  harder.     I 
thought  that  he  needed  the  stuff  more  than  myself, 
so  I  caught  his  head  between  my  knees,  and  though 
he  struggled  hard,  yet  I  poured  it  down  his  throat, 
gentlemen,  and  he  was  glad  enough  to  escape.  Then 
they   brought  another  to  me,   who  gave  me  a  little 
globule  of  sugar,  a  pin's  head  was  a  cannon  ball  be- 
side it,  and  told  me  that  it  would  cure  my  fever.  Do 
you  blame  me  for  thrusting  the  madman  out  of  my 
chamber  ?       Then  they  brought   me  another,  who 
would  give  me  no  medicine  at  all,  but  ordered  them 


to  swathe  me  in  wet  sheets.  Him,  too,  I  drove  from 
my  presence,  the  lunatic.  Yet  these  are  the  men 
who  come  here  to  swear  to  my  insanity.  Ah,  gen- 
tlemen, I  am  not  mad,  but  I  wonder  that  I  am  not. 
The  combined  powers  have  taken  away  my  Bessy 
and  my  little  boy.  and  I  shall  never,  never,  nevei  see 
them  more.     Never." 

It  was  a  perfectly  clear  case  of  lunacy,  and  a  piti- 
able one.  But  when  we  retired  to  the  jury-room,  one 
of  the  jurors  would  not  agree  with  the  other  five. 
He  stretched  himself  upon  a  bench,  threw  a  hand- 
kerchief over  his  head,  and  requested  us  to  wake  him 
when  we  had  come  over  to  his  way  of  thinking. 
For  myself,  I  was  not  disposed  to  be  bullied  out  of 
my  opinion,  so  I  too  lay  down  upon  a  bench,  deter- 
mined not  to  yield  an  inch  of  my  right  to  think  for 
myself,  and  in  a  few  minutes  fell  fast  asleep;  but  I 
had  better  have  kept  awake,  for  the  moment  that 
my  eyelids  fell,  I  had  to  perform  the  part  of  a  juior 
again. 

It  was  the  same  ill-lighted  room,  the  same  dull 
Judge  who  slept  through  half  the  trial,  the  same 
clownish  spectators,  the  same  everything,  except  the 
defendant,  who  yet  seemed  to  be  the  same  person  in 
a  different  habit. 

He  was  a  good  looking  youth  ;  indeed,  I  have  never 
seen  a  finer  ;  his  dark  chesnut  hair  and  sandy  beard 
were  equal  to  a  patent  of  nobility,  for  they  proclaim- 
ed his  Saxon  blood,  and  proved  him  of  a  race  that 
came  upon  the  earth  to  conquer  it.  His  eyes  were 
gray  and  his  complexion  fair.  But,  poor  man  I  he 
was  out  of  his  mind.  His  father  was  a  merchant, 
and  he  wept  while  he  gave  evidence  to  his  son's  in- 
sanity. He,  the  son,  would  wear  his  beard,  and  this 
was  the  proof  of  his  madness.  In  spite  of  the  jeers, 
the  sneers,  and  the  laughter  of  the  world,  he  would 
let  his  beard  grow  as  nature  intended.  Poor  fellow  ! 
We  all  pitied  him.  So  intelligent,  so  gentle  in  his 
manners,  so  happily  circumstanced,  and  yet  mad ! 
He  had  the  hardihood  to  declare  in  open  court,  that 
he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  deprive  his  face  of 
the  covering  which  God  had  put  upon  it. 

"  No  reason,"  cried  his  mother,  "  0,  my  son,  does 
not  your  father  shave,  your  uncle,  your  brother,  all 
the  world  shave  but  yourself?  No  reason  for  shav- 
ing?    O  !  my  son  !" 

"True,"  replied  the  unfortunate  youth,  as  he 
stroked  his  beard  with  ineffable  content,  <<  true,  but 
they  are  all  mad  or  they  would  not.  I  need  my 
beard  to  protect  my  face  and  throat  from  the  wet  and 
cold.  It  helps  to  hide  the  sharp  angles  of  my  jaws, 
it  makes  me  more  comely,  adds  to  my  strength,  and 
keeps  me  in  health.  Do  I  not  look  more  like  a  man 
than  my  father,  with  his  smooth,  pale  face,  who  has 
nothing  but  his  clothes  to  distinguish  him  from  a 
woman  ?  Look  at  him  ;  he  has  scraped  all  t'.ic  hair 
off  his  chin,  and  placed  another  man's  hair  on  his  head. 
Beautiful  consistency.  To  shave  his  chin  and  put 
false  hair  on  his  head  I      What  a  nr.ad  outrage  upon 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


103 


nature.  Hair  is  not  always  necessary  to  the  head, 
for  it  often  falls  off  as  we  grow  old,  but  it  never 
drops  from  the  chin.  I  appeal  to  this  honorable 
court — '' 

"  Silence  !"  cried  tlie  honorable  court,  who  at  that 
moment  woke  up. 

"  Justice  never  sleeps,  excepting  on  the  bench," 
observed  the  youth,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Go  on,"' said  the  honorable  court,  whose  busi- 
ness, when  out  of  court,  was  horse  dealing,  which 
fitted  him  in  an  eminent  degree  for  the  responsibili- 
ties of  his  office. 

"  I  appeal  to  this  honorable  court,"  continued  the 
insane  youth,  "  I  appeal  to  you,  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  and  I  would,  if  I  were  permitted,  appeal  to 
these  fair  ladies  (there  were  several  old  gossips  in 
the  room)  to  say  whether  I  am  not  more  sane  than 
my  father." 

"  I  can't  allow  such  audacious  remarks  as  those  in 
this  place,"  said  the  honorable  court,  rising  and 
wiping  its  honorable  face  with  a  dingy  handkerchief 
"  This  thing  mus'n"t  proceed  no  further.  I  don't 
know,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  as  I  have  ever  been 
more  seriously  affected  in  my  life,  than  I  have  been 
by  this  melancholy  trial." 

<■  Probably  not,"  said  the  maniac. 

"The  court  will  allow  no  interruption  from  no 
one,"  said  the  honorable  court,  fixing  its  dreadfullj' 
stern  eyes  on  the  madman,  and  stretching  out  its 
stumpy  fore-finger  in  a  threatening  manner.  "My 
heart  has  been  melted  by  the  scene  we  have  wit- 
nessed." 

"A  very  little  heat  will  melt  ice,"  said  the  mad 
youth. 

"  My  feelings  is  too  much  for  me  to  proceed,"  con- 
tinued the  honorable  court,  "  I  resign  the  case  into 
your  hands,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  only  remarking 
that  the  young  man  is  mad,  and  so  you  must  give  in 
your  "  werdick." 

The  poor  youth  was  immediately  put  into  a  strait- 
Jacket  and  dragged  away,  yet  he  still  seemed  to 
stand  at  the  bar,  but  his  appearance  was  changed. 
He  wore  a  broad-brimmed  hat  made  of  oaten  straw, 
a  linen  blouse  which  reached  below  his  knees,  and  a 
shirt  of  snowy  whiteness  open  at  the  throat,  so  that 
his  manly  neck  was  fully  exposed.  His  complexion 
was  brown,  his  eye  clear  and  bright,  his  laughing 
mouth  displayed  teeth  of  a  pearly  lustre,  and  he  ap- 
peared to  receive  great  pleasure  in  snuffing  the  fra- 
grance of  a  bunch  of  field  flowers  which  he  held  in 
his  hand.  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  him,  that  I  had 
never  seen  a  youth  who  bore  so  many  marks  of  un- 
equivocal soundness  of  mind  and  body.  But  he  was 
mad,  notwithstanding  all.  His  own  father  was  the 
first  witness  examined.  Poor  old  man!  he  could 
hardly  articulate  the  words  which  a  sense  of  duty  to 
his  child  compelled  him  to  utter. 

"  Nothing  but  a  hope  that  judicious  medical  treat- 
ment may  restore  my  son  to  his  senses,  could  induce 


me  to  this  dreadful  alternative,"  said  the  old  man 
after  he  had  been  sworn.  "  My  poor  son  has  been 
afflicted  with  his  disorder  for  two  years.  We  have 
tried  all  gentle  means  to  cure  him,  but  he  grows 
worse  and  worse.  The  proofs  of  his  madness  are  so 
glaring  that  he  cannot  be  kept  from  the  mad-'iouse. 
He  is  now  in  his  twenty-fifth  year  ;  he  has  had  a  good 
education,  the  best  that  money  could  procure  ;  he  has 
made  the  tour  of  Europe  ;  he  has  had  all  the  advan- 
tages which  my  extensive  business  connections  could 
give  him,  and  yet,  gentlemen,  regardless  of  my 
wishes,  and  his  own  welfare,  he  has  married  a  poor 
young  woman,  and  gone  to  bury  his  splendid  ac- 
complishments on  a  farm.  Is  it  not  dreadful,  gentle- 
men, to  witness  such  a  sacrifice  ?  I  offered  him  a 
share  in  my  business,  I  proposed  to  establish  him 
in  a  splendid  distillery,  but  such  was  the  poor  crea- 
ture's derangement  of  intellect  that  even  this  bril- 
liant offer  could  not  draw  him  from  the  obscurity  of 
the  country.  Look  at  his  dress,  gentlemen;  if  the 
court  please,  is  not  that  prima  facie  evidence  of  his 
insanity  ?" 

The  court  thought  it  was,  but  would  not  give  a 
decided  opinion  without  first  looking  into  somebody's 
reports. 

"  Look  at  him,  gentlemen,  would  anybody  believe 
that  he  was  the  son  of  a  rich  merchant?  That  dis- 
graceful blouse,  like  a  common  laborer's.  That 
coarse  straw  hat  !  O.  gentlemen,  pardon  a  father's 
weakness!     I  can  say  no  more." 

The  mother  of  the  insane  man  appeared  next,  but 
her  distress  was  too  great  to  admit  of  her  giving 
her  evidence  in  a  straight  forv^'ard  manner. 

She  believed  her  son  to  be  crazy.  Had  first  sus- 
pected it  on  his  return  from  Paris,  on  account  of  his 
plain  clothes  ;  he  had  left  off  coffee  and  tea,  and 
drank  nothing  but  cold  water  ;  he  talked  strangely 
about  the  country  ;  quite  unlike  her  other  children, 
who  were  fond  of  style,  and  lived  respectably  ;  insan- 
ity not  peculiar  to  the  family;  was  not  influenced  by 
her  husband  ;  had  seen  her  son  laugh  with  the  coach- 
man ;  had  opposed  his  marriage ;  thought  it  a  decid- 
ed proof  of  insanity  to  marry  out  of  one's  own  cir- 
cle ;  had  been  the  first  to  propose  sending  her  son  to 
the  insane  retreat. 

After  the  witnesses  delivered  their  testimony,  the 
court  told  the  maniac  that  he  might  address  the  jury. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  in  regard  to  the  testimo- 
ny," said  the  youth  "  but  that  it  is  all  true.  I  pre- 
fer the  sweets  of  a  country  life  to  the  bitter  toils  of 
business.  I  have  a  wife  whom  I  love  ;  she  brought 
me  no  fortune,  it  is  true,  but  she  helps  me  daily  to 
earn  one.  I  have  a  little  farm  which  yields  more 
than  I  need  ;  I  have  good  health,  a  quiet  conscience, 
and  two  lovely  children  whose  minds  and  bodies  I 
am  striving  to  rear  in  conformity  with  the  dictates 
of  nature.  For  these  I  prefer  a  moderate  fortune  in 
the  country  to  an  immoderate  one  in  the  city.  Be- 
sides  I   look   upon   the  judgment  pronounced  upon 


104 


VOICES    OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


Adam  in  the  light  of  a  command,  and  I  was  never 
happy  until  the  sweat  of  my  own  brow  seasoned  my 
daily  food." 

The  jury  pronounced  him  mad  without  leaving 
their  seats. 

"  A  righteous  vverdick !"  said  the  honorable  court. 

He  was  led  from  the  court-room,  and  yet  he  still 
stood  there,  such  are  the  inconsistencies  of  dreams. 

He  was  now  dressed  in  rusty  clothes  ;  his  counte- 
nance was  subdued  by  thought ;  he  was  unhappy  but 
not  uneasy;  his  eyes  were  cast  down,  his  lips  were 
more  closely  pressed  together,  and  the  vigorous  look 
of  youth  was  changed  for  a  gravity  of  demoanor 
that  sat  upon  him  well,  though  it  seemed  too  grave 
for  his  years.  There  was  literally  a  cloud  of  wit- 
nesses to  his  insanity.  He  had  been  heard  to  pity  a 
condemned  felon ;  he  had  said  irreverent  things  of 
the  law;  he  had  spoken  against  the  clergy;  he  had 
abused  physic ;  he  had  given  his  nfioney  to  vaga- 
bonds ;  he  laughed  at  the  fashions ;  he  had  cried  at 
a  wedding  ;  he  was  opposed  to  war  ;  he  had  been 
struck  without  returning  the  blow  ;    he  had  pitied  a 

slaveholder  ;  he  had .     But  the  jury  would  hear 

no  more.  They  pronounced  him  mad  with  one  voice. 
All  Bedlam  seemed  now  broken  loose.  No  sooner 
was  one  maniac  pronounced  upon  than  another  occu- 
pied the  stand.  The  obscure  little  court-room  be- 
gan to  look  like  the  ante-room  of  the  revolutionary 
tribunal.  To  expedite  business  a  whole  lot  of  mani- 
acs were  put  up  together  and  judged  in  a  lump. 

One  was  a  young  girl  of  eighteen  who  had  mar- 
ried her  father's  poor  clerk  whom  she  loved,  when 
she  might  have  married  her  father's  rich  partner 
whose  money  her  friends  loved  ;  a  Wall-street  broker 
who  had  refused  usury  on  a  note  ;  a  grocer  who  had 
recommended  a  customer  not  to  buy  his  sugar  be- 
cause he  could  buy  cheaper  elsewhere  ;  a  man  who 
corrected  a  post  office  error  when  his  letter  had  been 
undercharged  ;  a  political  orator  who  had  refused 
an  office  because  he  did  not  think  himself  entitled  to 
one  ;  a  lawyer  who  refused  to  advocate  the  cause  of 
a  rogue  on  the  pretence  of  conscientious  scruples; 
a  critic  who  doubted  his  own  infallibility ;  a  lieu- 
tenant of  marines  who  gave  up  his  commission  and 
earned  his  bread  by  his  own  labor;  an  editor  of  a 
newspaper  who  had  never  called  names  ;  an  English 
traveller  without  national  prejudices  ;  a  midship- 
man who  never  damned  the  service  ;  an  artist  who 
painted  from  nature  ;  an  author  who  was  satisfied 
with  a  review  of  his  book  ;  a  young  lady  who  w-as 
offended  at  being  told  that  she  was  pretty ;  a  poet 
who  considered  himself  inferior  to  Shakspeare. 
These  were  all  pronounced  mad.  But  the  noise  of 
their  removal  woke  me,  and  finding  that  the  other 
jurors  had  gone  over  to  the  one  who  was  for  render- 
ing a  vedict  of  not  insane,  I  too,  instructed  by  my 
dream,  concluded  to  coincide  with  them,  lest  I  should 
establish  a  precedent  by  which  I  might  at  some  fu- 
ture day  be  pronounced  mad  myself 


THE  SPRING. 


BV      GEORGE     S.      BURLEIGH 


Of  the  pure  crystal  Spring, 
And  the  bright  water,  sing 

Ever  and  aye  : 
As  it  comes  bubbling  up 
Round  the  green  grassy  top 
Of  its  small  *'  gravel  cup," 

Hasting  away. 

n. 

Earth  wears  a  deeper  green 
"Where  the  glad  Spring  is  seen, 

And  the  skies  seem, 
Under  ami  far  above. 
As  in  the  fondness  of 
Pure  and  maternal  love, 

Circling  the  stream. 

HI. 

There  the  soft  breezes  come, 
IMaking  the  leaflets  hum 

Low  as  they  pass  ; 
And  their  light  pinions  play, 
All  through  the  summer's  day- 
Moving  the  waters  gay 

And  the  long  grass. 

IV. 

Where  the  still  runnel  flows, 
There  the  white  lily  blows, 

Modest  and  pure. 
Seen  through  the  foliage  dim, 
On  the  tall  maple  limb. 
Pours  the  glad  bird  a  hymn 

To  her  fond  wooer. 


Down  on  the  grassy  brink 
Of  the  clear  rill,  to  drink. 

Stoops  the  tired  mower- 
Blessing  the  God  who  gave 
Man  the  translucent  wave. 
From  its  deep  hidden  cave. 

Ever  to  pour. 

VI. 

See  the  bright  waters  curl, 
As  the  gay  reaper's  girl 

Kneels  at  their  side. 
And  the  pure  crystal  sips — 
Bathing  her  rosy  lips — 
While  the  pressed  herbage  dips 

In  the  cool  tide. 


VOICES    OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED, 


105 


vir, 

Down  in  the  wave  below, 
Health's  cheek,  with  ruddy  glow, 

Blooms  like  a  girl's — 
Pressed  to  the  waters  down. 
See  the  lips  meet  her  own, 
While  on  the  breezes  blown, 

Blend  their  soft  curls. 

VII. 

Tell  not  of  "  rosy  wine" 
Crowning  with  "joys  divine" 

Life  and  its  cares  ; 
Blood  shot  and  sunken  eyes. 
Tears  and  half-uttered  sighs, 
Tell,  of  its  votaries. 

Sorrow  is  theirs.  * 

IX. 

Children  of  bitter  wo, 
Come  to  the  waters  I — ho  ! 

Come,  mourners,  come  ! 
Come  ye  where  pleasures  swim 
Round  the  Spring's  grassy  brim- 
Fly  from  the  demon  grim. 

Couched  in  the  Rum  ! 


Joy,  with  her  sunny  locks, 
Leaps  on  the  mossy  rocks, 

Where  the  Spring  flows 
Nature  smiles  sweetly  there — 
Flowers  scent  the  summer  air — 
And  the  dull  fiend  of  care 

Flies  with  his  woes. 


THE  BEGGAR. 

BY    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

A  beggar  through  the  world  am  I, 
From  place  to  place  I  wander  by  ; 
Fill  up  my  pilgrim's  scrip  for  me, 
For  Christ's  sweet  sake  and  charity  ! 
A  little  of  thy  steadfastness. 
Rounded  with  leafy  gracefulness. 

Old  oak,  give  me, — 
That  the  world's  blast  may  round  me  blow. 
And  I  yield  gently  to  and  fro, 
While  my  stout-hearted  trunk  below 

And  firm-set  roots  unmoved  be. 

Some  of  thy  stern,  unyielding  might. 
Enduring  still  through  day  and  night 
Rude  tempest-shock  and  withering  blight, — 

That  I  may  keep  at  bay 
The  changeful  April  sky  of  chance 
And  the  strong  tide  of  circumstance, — 

Give  me,  old  granite  gray. 
14 


?ome  of  thy  mournfulness  serene, 
Some  of  thy  never  dying  green. 

Put  in  this  scrip  of  mine, — 
That  grief  may  fall  like  snow  flakes  light. 
And  deck  me  in  a  robe  of  white. 
Ready  to  lie  an  angel  bright, — 

Oh  sweetly  mournful  pine. 

A  little  of  thy  merriment  ; 
Of  thy  sparkling  light  content, 

Give  me,  my  cheerful  brook, — 
That  I  may  still   be  full  of  glee 
And  gladsomeness  where'er  I  be, 
Though  fickle  faith  hath  prison'd  me 

In  some  neglected  nook. 

Ye  have  been  very  kind  and  good 
To  me,  since  I've  been  in  the  wood ; 
Ye  have  gone  nigh  to  fill  my  heart  ; 
But  good  bye  kind  friends,  every  one, 
I've  far  to  go,  ere  sets  the  sun  ; 
Of  all  good  things  I  would  have  part. 
The  day  was  high  ere  1  could  start. 
And  so  my  journey's  scarce  begun. 

Heaven  help  me  !  how  could  I  forget 
To  beg  of  thee,  dear  violet; — 

Some  of  thy  modesty. 
That  flowers  here  as  well,  unseen. 
As  if  before  the  world  thou'dst  been. 

Oh  give,  to  strengthen  me. 


THE    MOON. 

BY.  L.  E.  L. 

The  moon  is  sailing  o'er  the  sky. 

But  lonely  all,  as  if  she  pined 
For  somewhat  of  companionship, 

And  felt  it  were  in  vain  she  shined  : 

Earth  is  her  mirror,  and  the  stars 
Are  as  the  court  around  her  throne  ; 

She  is  a  beauty  and  a  queen, — 
But  what  is  this  ?  she  is  alone. 

Is  there  not  one — not  one — to  share 
Thy  glorious  royalty  on  high  ? 

I  cannot  choose  but  pity  thee 
Thou  lovely  orphan  of  the  sky. 

I'd  rather  be  the  meanest  flower 

That  grows,  my  mother  earth,  on  thee. 

So  there  were  others  of  my  kin 
To  blossom,  bloom,  droop,  die  with  me. 

Earth,  thou  hast  sorrow,  grief,  and  death  ; 

But  with  these  better  could  I  bear. 
Than  reach  and  rule  yon  radiant  sphere. 

And  be  a  solitary  there. 


106 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


THE  GAMBLER'S  WIFE. 

EV    RKVNELL  COAXES. 

Dark  is  the  night !  How  dark  !  No  li^ht !     No  fire  ! 
Cold  on  the  hearth,  the  last  faint  sparks  expire  ; 
Shivering  she  watches  by  the  cradle  side 
For  him  who  pledged  her  love— lad  yearahride  ! 

Hark  !     'Tis  his  footsteep  !    No  !— 'Tis  past  !— 'Tis 

gone  !' 
Tick  !—  Tick  ! — <  How  wearily  the  time  crawls  on! 
Why  should  he  leave  me  thus  ? — He  once  was  kind  ! 
And    I,  believed  'twould    last  ! — How  mad  ! — How 

blind! 

Rest  thee,  my  babe  ! — Rest  on  ! — 'Tis  hunger's  cry  I 
Sleep  ! — for  there  is  no  food  ;— The  font  is  dry  ! 
Famine  and  cold  their  wearying  work  have  done  ! 
My  heart   must   break  ! — And   thou  !' — The  clock, 
strikes  one. 

«Hush!  'tis  the  dice-box  1     Yes! — he's   there,  he's 

there  ! 
For  this  ! — for  this  he  leaves  me  to  despair  ! 
Leaves  love  !  leaves  truth  !  his  wife  !  his  child  !  for 

what  ? 
The  wanton's  smile— the  villain— and  the  sot ! 

Yet  ril  not  curse  him.     No!   'tis  all  in  vain  ! 
'Tis  long  to  wait,  but  sure  he'll  come  again  ! 
And  I  could  starve  and  bless  him  but  for  you. 
My  child  \~his  child  !  Oh  !  fiend  !'  The  clock  strikes 
two. 

«  Hark  !    How    the    sign-board  creaks !     The   blast 

howls  by  ! 
Moan !  moan  !     A  dirge  swells  through   the  cloudy 

sky  ! 
Ha  !     'tis  his  knock  !  He  comes ! — he   comes  once 

more  ! 
'Tis  but  the  lattice  flaps!     The  hope  is  o'er! 

'  Can  he  desert  us  thus  ?  He  knows  I  stay 
Night  after  night  in  loneliness  to  pray 
For  his  return — and  yet  he  sees  no  tear  ! 
No  !  no  !  It  cannot  be  !     He  will  be  here  ! 

Nestle  more  closely,  dear  one,  to  my  heart  ; 
Thou'rt  cold !  Thou'rt   freezing!  But  we   will    not 

part  I 
Husband  ! — I  lie  !  — Father  !— It  is  not  he  ! 
Oh,   God,    protect    my  child!'      The    clock   strikes 
k  three  ! 

They're  gone,  they're  gone  !  The  glimmering  spark 

hath  fled  ! 
The  wife  and  child  are  number'd  with  the  dead. 
On  the  cold  earth,  outstretched  in  solemn  rest, 
The  babe  lay  frozen  on  its  mother's  breast : 
The  gambler  came  at  last,  but  all  was  o'er — 
Dread    silence    reign'd    around— the    clock     struck 

four! 


CHANNING. 


Br    CHARLES    F.  BRIfiGS. 


Who  now    shall   plead  thy  grievous  wrongs,  poor 

slave  ? 
Scourged  darkling !  who,  with  melting  eloquence, 
Win  for  thee  tears,  and  prayers,  and  hoarded  pence, 
Now  they  have  borne  thy  Channing  to  the  grave  ? 
Channing,  who  plead  for  thee  so  gently  brave, 
Till  our  warmed  hearts  lost  all  their  cold  defense, 
And  selfish  thoughts,  we  vainly  urged  for  sense, 
Charmed  submission  to  his  pleadings  gave. 
Weep  for  him,  all  who  wear  the  oppressor's  chain  ! 
Whether  in  Europe's  loathsome  cells  confined, 
Where  brutish  pastors  rule  the  unconscious  mind, 
Or  torn  from  your  wild  homes  across  the  main, 
Or  unpaid  laboring  for  your  fellow  kind  : 
For  you  his  voice  will  ne'er  be  heard  again. 

Stilled  is  that  voice,  whose  dying  utterance  spoke 
Great  truths  in  gentle  strains,  that  ne'er  shall  cease 
To  echo  from  men's  hearts  with  wide  increase, 
Till  the  last  link  of  slavery  shall  be  broke, 
And  man  no  longer  wears  his  fellow's  yoke, 
While  the  oppressor  rests  in  swinish  ease, 
And  recreant  rulers  court  ignoble  peace  ; 
Or  hirelings,  covered  with  religion's  cloak, 
Palsy  the  ear  with  words  in  cloister  caught ; 
Dull,  bookish  words,  to  God  nor  man  allied  ; 
Lifeless  abortions  borne  of  priestly  pride. 
Which  mouthed  for  centuries  still  come  to  nought; 
Falsely  proclaimed  of  Him,  the  crucified, 
Who  first  to  man  tidings  of  Freedom  brought. 


UNSEEN    SPIRITS. 

BY  N.  r.  WILLIS. 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway — 
'Twas  near  the  twilight-tide — 

And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride; 

Alone  walked  she;  but,  viewlessly, 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honor  charmed  the  air  ; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her. 

And  called  her  good  as  fair — 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care,  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true — 

For  her  heart  was  cold,  to  all  but  gold, 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo — 

But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED, 


107 


Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair — 

A  light  girl,  lily-pale  ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 
To  make  the  spirit  quail — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray  ; 

For  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way  ! 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 
By  man  is  curst  alway  I 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 

BY  ALFRED    TENNYSON. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown ; 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired  : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls — 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

1  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coat-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies  : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be  ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view. 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind. 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear. 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 


Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall  : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door. 

You  changed  n  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth. 
And,  last,  you  fixed  a  vacant  stare. 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent, 
The  gardner  Adam  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets. 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  ; 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers ; 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth. 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease. 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  Time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands. 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh  I  teach  the  orphan  boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan  girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


ADVERSITY. 

BY   FRANCIS   BACON,  LORD  VERTIL1M. 

It  was  an  high  speech  of  Seneca,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  Stoics.  That  the  good  things  which  be- 
long to  Prosperity  are  to  be  wished,  but  the  good 
things  that  belong  to  Adversity  are  to  be  admired. 
Buna  rerum  secundarum  opiabilia,  Adversarum  mi- 
rabilia.  Certainly  if  miracles  be  the  command  over 
nature,  they  appear  most  in  adversity.  It  is  yet  a 
higher  speech  of  his  than  the  other — much  too  high 
for  a  heathen — It  is  true  greatness  to  have  in  one 
the  frailty  of  a  man,  and  the  security  of  a  God. 
Vere  ynaqmmi  habere  fra<;iUtatevi  hojnini/t,  securi- 
tatem  Dei.  This  would  have  done  better  in  poesie, 
where  transcendences  are  more  allowed.  And  the 
Poets  indeed  have  been  busy  with  it ;  for  it  is  in  ef- 
fect the  thing  which  is  figured  in  that  strange  fiction 
of  the  ancient  poets,  which  seemeth  not  without 
mystery — nay,  and  to  have  some  approach  to  the 
state  of  a  christian— That  Hercules,  when  he  went 
to  unbind  Prometheus  (by  whom  human  nature  is 
represented)  sailed   the    length  of  the  great  ocean. 


108 


VOICES    OF     THE  TRUE- HEARTED. 


in  an  earthen  pot,  or  pitcher;  lively  describing 
Christian  Resolution,  that  saileth  in  the  frail  bark 
of  the  flesh  through  the  waves  of  the  world.  But 
to  speak  in  a  mean.  The  virtue  of  Prosperity  is 
Temperance;  the  virtue  of  Adversity  is  Forti- 
tude, which  in  morals  is  the  more  heroical  virtue. 
Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the  Old 'I'estament ; 
Adversity  is  the  blessing  of  the  New,  which  carri- 
eth  the  greater  benediction,  and  the  clearer  revela- 
tion of  God's  favour.  Yet  even  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, if  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you  shall  hear 
as  many  hearse-like  airs  as  carols.  And  the  pen- 
cil of  the  Holy  Ghost  hath  laboured  more,  in  des- 
cribing the  afflictions  of  Job,  than  the  felicities  of 
Solomon.  Prosperity  is  not  without  many  fears 
and  distates  ;  and  Adversity  is  not  without  com- 
forts and  hopes.  We  see  in  needle-workers  and 
imbroiderers,  it  is  more  pleasing  to  have  a  lively 
woik  upon  a  sad  and  solemn  ground,  than  to  have  a 
dark  and  melancholy  work  upon  a  lightsome  ground. 
Judge  therefore  of  the  pleasure  of  the  heart  by  the 
pleasure  of  the  eye.  Certainly  virtue  is  like  pre- 
cious odors,  most  fragrant  when  they  are  incensed 
or  crushed;  for  Prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice, 
but  Adversity  doth  best  discover  virtue. 


SONG  FOR  AUGUST. 

BY     HARRIETT      MARTINEAU. 

Beneath  this  starry  arch. 

Nought  resteth  or  is  still ; 
But  all  things  hold  their  march 
As  if  by  one  great  will. 
Moves  one,  moves  all ; 
Hark  to  the  foot-fall  ! 
On,  on,  for  ever. 

Yon  sheaves  were  once  but  seed  ; 
Will  ripens  into  deed; 
As  cave-drops  swell  the  streams. 
Day  thoughts  feed  nightly  dreams, 
And  sorrow  tracketh  wrong. 
As  echo  follows  song, 

On,  on,  for  ever. 

By  night,  like  stars  on  high. 

The  hours  reveal  their  train  ; 
They  whisper  and  go  by  ; 
I  never  watch  in  vain. 

Moves  one,  move  all ; 

Hark  to  the  foot-fall  ! 

On,  on,  for  ever. 

They  pass  the  cradle  head, 
And  there  a  promise  shed  ; 
They  pass  the  moist  new  grave. 
And  bid  rank  verdure  wave  ; 
Thej'  bear  through  every  clime, 
The  harvests  of  all  time. 

On,  on,  for  ever. 


SONG  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  WEAVER. 

Those  of  our  readers  who  have  travelled  in  that 
beautiful  part  of  Germany  called  the  Saxon  Switzer- 
land, and  thence  onward  through  Silesia  to  the  Riesen 
Gebirge,  will  have  knowledge  not  only  of  the  cha- 
racter of  the  country,  but,  of  its  industrious  people, 
living  not  in  towns,  but  as  it  were  in  one  continu- 
ous village,  along  the  bottoms  of  the  valleys,  follow- 
ing the  course  of  a  river  or  rivulet.  They  will 
remember  the  houses,  half  built  of  wood,  and  gaily 
painted  red,  and  green,  and  yellow,  like  so  many  of 
Mrs.  Jarley's  caravans  standing  in  the  sunshine;  and 
they  will  remember,  too,  all  the  webs  of  linen-thread 
which  lay  on  the  hill  sides  bleaching,  and  all  the 
looms  that  they  heard  at  work  within  the  houses. 
They  will  remember  that  in  these  gay,  straggling 
brookside  villages,  is  made  all  the  beautiful  table- 
linen  which  has  been  their  admiration  at  the  hotels 
and  in  private  houses  half  over  Europe.  As  they 
passed  through  this  region  of  German  weavers  they 
no  doubt  have  thought  of  our  own  weavers  in  Man- 
chester and  Glasgow,  living  in  dens  of  poverty, 
working  sixteen  hours  a  day,  and  hardly  seeing  God's 
sunshine,  and  to  their  fancies  these  Silesian  villages 
seemed  bits  of  Arcadian  life.  The  prosperity  of 
that  region,  however,  is  with  the  things  that  were — 
times  are  altered,  even  there;  political  changes  and 
restrictions,  principally,  perhaps,  the  closing  of  the 
market  which  they  had  for  their  goods  in  Russia  and 
Poland,  has  brought  down  the  curse  of  the  bitterest 
poverty  and  want  upon  these  industrious  pfople. 
The  hand-loom  weavers  of  Lancashire  are  not  suffer- 
ing more  severe  want  than  they. 

Our  own  Hood  wrote  <  The  Song  of  the  Shirt,' 
like  a  knell  sounding  from  the  depths  of  despair  to 
call  up  human  kindness  in  human  hearts,  and  the 
German  poet  Freillgrath,  one  of  the  noblest  hearted 
men  and  finest  poets  of  Germany,  has  written,  too, 
his  poem  from  the  mountains  of  Silesia,  which  is  a 
worthy  pendant  to  Hood's  song.  The  following  is 
a  translation,  by  Mary  Howitt,  of  Freillgrath'spoem, 
but  which  we  must  first  premise  with  a  word  or  two 
of  explanation. — Rijbezahl,  familiar  to  our  readers 
as  Number-nip,  had  his  haunt  among  the  Riesen 
Gebirge,  and  was  the  especial  friend  and  patron  of 
the  poor.  The  legend  of  Riibezahl  is  one  of  the  most 
touching  and  beautiful  of  the  German  popular 
stories. — Atheuocum. 

Green  grow  the  budding  blackberry  hedges  ; 

What  joy  I   a  violet  meets  my  quest  I 
The  blackbird  seeks  the  last  year's  sedges, 

The  chaffinch  also  builds  her  nest. 
The  snow  has  from  each  place  receded, 

Alone  is  white  the  mountain's  brow; 
I  from  my  home  have  stolen  unheeded  ; 

This  is  the  place — I'll  venture  now  ; 
Riibezahl ! 


V  0  I  C  E  S  0  F    THE    T  R  U  E  -  II  E  A  R  T  E  D 


109 


Hears  he  my  call  1     I'll  boldly  face  him  ! 

He  is  not  bad  !     Upon  this  rock 
My  pack  of  linen  I  will  place  him — 

It  is  a  right  good,  heavy  stock  ! 
And  fine !  yes,  I'll  uphold  it  ever, 

r  th'  dale  no  better's  wove  at  all — 
He  shows  himself  to  mortal  never ! 

So  courage,  hcait !  once  more  I  call ; 
Riibezahl ! 

No  sound  !     Into  the  wood  I  hasted, 

That  he  might  help  us,  hard  bested  I 
My  mother's  cheek  so  wan  and  wasted — 

Within  the  house  no  crumb  of  bread ! 
To  market,  cursing,  went  my  father — 

Might  he  but  there  a  buyer  meet ; 
With  Riibezahl  I'll  venture  rather — 

Him  for  the  third  time  I  entreat; 
Riibezahl ! 

For  he  so  kindly  helped  a  many, — 

My  grandmother  oft  to  me  has  told  ; 
Yes,  gave  poor  folks  a  good-luck  penny 

\\  hose  woe  was  undeserved  of  old  I 
So  here  I  sped,  my  heart  beats  lightly. 

My  goods  are  justly  measured  all ! 
I  will  not  beg, — will  sell  uprightly  ! 

Oh,  that  he  would  come  !     Riibezahl ! 
Riibezahl ! 

If  this  small  pack  should  take  his  fancy, 

Perhaps  he'd  order  more  to  come ! 
I  should  be  pleased  !      Ah,  there  is  plenty 

As  beautiful  as  this,  at  home  ! 
Suppose  he  took  it  every  piece  ! 

Ah,  would  his  choice  on  this  might  fall ! 
What's  pawned  I  would  myself  release — 

That  would  be  glorious  I     Riibezahl ! 
Riibezahl  ! 

I'd  enter  then  our  small  room  gaily, 

And  cry,  "  Here,  father's  gold  in  store  !" 
He'd  curse  not ;  that  he  wove  us  daily 

A  hunger-web,  would  say  no  more  ! 
Then,  then  again  would  smile  my  mother, 

And  serve  a  plenteous  meal  to  all ; 
Then  would  huzza  each  little  brother — 

Oh,  that  he  would  come  !  Riibezahl  I 
Riibezahl ! 

Thus  spake  the  little  weaver  lonely, 

Thus  stood  and  cried  he,  weak  and  pale. 
In  vain !  the  casual  raven  only 

Flew  o'er  the  old  gnome-haunted  dale. 
Thus  stood  he  whilst  the  hours  passed  slowly. 

Till  the  night-shadows  dimmed  the  glen. 
And  with  white  quivering  lips,  said  lowly, 

Amid  his  tears,  yet  once  again, 
Riibezahl ! 


Then  softly  from  the  green-wood  turning 

He  trembled,  sighed,  took  up  his  pack, 
And  to  the  unassuaged  mourning 

Of  his  poor  home  went  slowly  back. 
Oft  paused  he  by  the  way,  heart-aching, 

Feeble,  and  by  his  burden  bowed. 
— Methinks  the  famished  father's  making 

For  that  poor  youth,  even  now,  a  shroud! 
Riibezahl  ! 


THE  FREED    BIRD. 

BY  AMELIA  WELBY. 

Thy  cage  is  opened,  bird — too  well  I  love  thee. 
To  bar  the  sunny  things  of  earth  from  thee  ; 

A  whole  broad  heaven  of  blue  lies  calm  above  thee. 
The  green  wood  waves  beneath,  and  thou  art  free  ! 

These  slender  wires  shall  prison  thee  no  more — 

Up,  bird  !   and  'mid  the  clouds  thy  thrilling  music 
pour. 

Away,  away  !  the  laughing  waters  playing. 
Break  on  the  fragrant  shore  in  ripples  blue; 

And  the  green  leaves  unto  the  breeze  are  laying 
Their  shining  edges,  fringed  with  drops  of  dew; 

And  here  and  there  a  wild-flower  lifts  its  head. 

Refreshed  with  sudden  life,   from  many  a  sunbeam 
shed. 

How  sweet  thy  voice  will  sound  !  for  o'er  yon  river 
The  wing  of  silence,  like  a  dream,  is  laid ; 

And  nought  is  heard,   save  when  the  wood-boughs 
quiver, 
Making  rich  spots  of  trembling  light  and  shade ; 

And  a  new  rapture  thy  wild  spirit  fills. 

For  joy  is  on  the  breeze,  and  morn  upon  the  hills. 

Now,  like  the  aspen,  plays  each  quivering  feather 
Of  thy  soft  pinions,  bearing  thee  along, 

Up,  where  the  morning  stars  once  sang  together. 
To  pour  the  feelings  of  thine  own  rich  song ; 

And  now  thou'rt  mirrored  to  my  dazzled  view, 

A  little  dusky  speck,  amid  a  world  of  blue. 

Yet  I  will  shade  mine  eyes,  and  still  pursue  thee. 

As  thou  dost  melt  in  soft,  etherial  air. 
Till  angel-ones,  sweet  bird,  will  bend  to  view  thee. 
And  cease  their  hymns  awhile,  thine  own  to  share  ; 
And  there   thou  art,    with  white  clouds   round  thee 

furl'd. 
Just  poised  beneath  yon  vault  that  arches  o'er  the 
world  ! 

A  free  wild  spirit  unto  thee  is  given. 

Bright  minstrel  of  the  blue  celestial  dome  ; 

For  thou  wilt  wander  to  yon  upper  heaven, 

And  bathe  thy  plumage  in  the  sunbeam's  home  ; 

And  soaring  upward  from  thy  dizzy  height 

On  free  and  fearless  wing,  bo  lost  to  human  sight ! 


no 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


Lute  of  the  summer-clouds  I    whilst  thou  art  singing 
Unto  thy  Maker  thy  soft  matin  hymn, 

My  own  wild  spirit,  from  its  temple  springing, 
Would  freely  join  thee  in  the  distance  dim  ; 

Put  I  can  only  gaze  on  thee  and  sigh, 

With  heart  upon  my  lip,  bright  minstrel  of  the  sky  ! 

And   yet,   sweet  bird,    bright   thoughts   to    me   are 
given. 
As  many  as  the  clustering  leaves  of  June  ; 
And  my  young  heart  is  like  a  harp  of  Heaven, 

Forever  strung  unto  some  pleasant  tune ; 
And  my  soul  burns  with  wild,  poetic  fire. 
Though  simple  are  my  strains,  and  simpler  still    my 
lyre. 

And  now,  farewell !  the  wild  winds  of  the  mountain 
And  the  blue  streams  alone  my  strains  have  heard  ; 

And  it  is  well — for,  from  my  heart's  deep  fountain 
They  flow,  uncultured  as  thy  own,  sweet  bird — 

For  my  free  thoughts  have  ever  spurned  control. 

Since  this  heart  held  a  wish,  and  this  frail  form  a 
soul ! 


BE  PATIENT. 

Be  patient,  Oh,  be  patient!  put  your  ear    against  the 

earth  ; 
Listen  there  how  noiselessly  the  germ  o'  the  seed  has 

birth ; 
How  noiselessly  and  gently  it  upheaves  its  little  way, 
Till  it  parts  the    scarcely  broken   ground,    and     the 

blade  stands  up  in  the  day  ! 

Be  patient.  Oh,  be  patient!  the  germs  of  mighty 
thought 

Must  have  their  silent  undergrowth,  must  under- 
ground be  wrought ; 

But  as  sure  as  ever  there's  a  Power  that  makes  the 
grass  appear, 

Our  land  shall  be  green  with  Libeiitt,  the  blade- 
time  shall  be  here. 

Be  patient.  Oh,  be  patient!  go  and  watch  the  wheat- 
ears  grow  ! 

So  imperceptibly,  that  ye  can  mark  nor  change,  nor 
throe ; 

Day  after  day — day  after  day,  till  the  ear  is  fully 
grown  ; 

And  then,  again,  day  after  day,  till  the  ripened  field 
is  brown. 

Be  patient,  Oh,  bo  patient!  though  yet  our  hopes  arc 

green, 
The  harvest-fields  of  Freedom  shall  be   crowned  with 

the  sunny  sheen : 
Be  ripening  !  be  ripening !  mature  your  silent  way, 
Till  the  whole  broad  land  is  tongued  with  fire,   on 

Frecdoni'.s  harvest  day  ! 


THE  WIFE. 

FROM    THE    GEKM.\N    OF    STOLBERG. 

Happy  he  to  whom  kind  heaven, 
Rich  in  grace,  a  wife  hath  given. 
Virtuous,  wise,  and  formed  for  love, 
Gentle,  guileless  as  a  dova. 

Let  him  thank  his  God  for  this 
Pure  overflowing  cup  of  bliss  ; 
Pain  may  never  linger  near, 
With  such  friend  to  soothe  and  cheer. 

She,  like  moonlight,  mild  and  fair, 
Smiles  away  each  gloomy  care — 
Kisses  dry  man's  secret  tears. 
And  with  flowers  his  pathway  cheers. 

When  his  boiling  heart  heaves  high, 
Flashing  fire  from  his  eye. 
When  kind  friendship  seeks  in  vain, 
Passion's  wild  career  to  rein, — 

Then  her  gentle  step  is  near ; 
Softly  drops  her  soothing  tear. 
As  when  evening  dew  comes  down 
On  the  meadow  scorched  and  brown. 

Some  have  sought  their  bliss  in  gold  ! 
Some  for  fame  their  peace  have  sold  ; 
Gold  and  glory  in  the  hand 
Crumble  like  a  ball  of  sand. 

Heaven  sends  man  the  faithful  wife; 
Life  without  her  is  not  life  ! 
And  when  life  is  o'er,  her  love 
Gilds  a  brighter  scene  above. 


MOTHER. 

BY     "PHAZMA." 

Of  all  the  words  in  language  there's  no  other 
Equal  in  gentle  influence  to  Mother  ! 

It  is  the  first  name  that  we  learn  to  love 

It  is  the  first  star  shining  from  above ! 
It  is  a  light  that  has  a  softer  ray 
Than  aught  we  find  in  evening  or  day. 

IMother  I — It  back  to  childhood  brings  the  man. 
And  forth  to  womanhood  it  leads  the  maiden. 

Mother  ! — 'Tis  with   the  name  of  all  things  be- 
gan 
That  are  with  love  and  sympathy  full  laden. 

O  !  tis  the  fairest  thing  in  nature's  plan. 
That  all  life's  cares  may  not  afltction  smother, 

While  lives  within  the  yearning  heart  of  man 
Melting  remembrance  of  a  gentle  Mother! 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE -HE  ART  ED, 


lU 


THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE. 

BY  HENRV  \V.   LONGFELLOW. 

Filled  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim ; 
And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
I  see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 
And  chaunt  a  melancholy  hymn 

With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 
No  purple  flowers — no  garlands  green 
Conceal  the  goblet's  shade  or  sheen, 
Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 

The  leaves  of  misletoe. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art, 
Is  filled  with  waters  that  upstart, 
When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart. 
By  strong  convulsion  rent  apart, 

Are  running  all  to  waste; 
And,  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 
With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned. 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrowned, 
Are  in  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned, 

And  give  a  bitter  taste. 

Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers. 
The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers, 
And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers. 

Lost  vision  to  restore. 
It  gave  new  strength  and  fearless  mood  ; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 
Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food  ; 
And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 

A  wreath  of  fennel  wore. 

Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less, 
For,  in  thy  darkness  and  distress, 

New  light  and  strength  they  give. 
And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show, 
How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  wo 
With  which  its  brim  may  overflow, 

He  has  not  learned  to  live. 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light ; 
Through  all  the  dark  and  desperate  fight. 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 
He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight, 

To  see  his  foeman's  face. 
Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light, — for  strength  to  bear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 
That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 

One  half  the  human  race. 
O  suffering,  sad  humanity ! 
O  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  misery, 
Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die, 


Patient,  though  sorely  tried  ! 
I  pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief 
Were  floats  the  fennel's  bitter  leaf! 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 
'Jhe  alarm — the  struggle — the  relief — 

Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 


THE   SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

Bt  HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW. 

Loud  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David  ! 
He,  a  Negro  and  enslaved, 
Sang  of   Israel's  victory, 
Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free. 
In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest, 
Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, 
In  a  voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I  could  not  choose  but  hear, 
Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions, 
Such  as  reached  the  swart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 
And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  with  strange  emotion  ; 
For  its  tones  by  turns  were  glad. 
Sweetly  solemn,  wildly  sad. 
Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison. 
Sang  of  Christ  the  Lord  arisen. 
And  an  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 
But,  alas  !  what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  slave  this  glad  evangel  ? 
And  what  earthquake's  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night? 

POEMSBYHANNAH  F.GOULD. 

THE  WINTER  KING. 

0  !  what  will  become  of  thee,  poor  little  bird  1 

The  muttering  storm  in  the  distance  is  heard ; 

The   rough   winds  are   waking,  the    clowds    growing 

black! 
They'll  soon  scatter  snow-flakes  all  over  thy  back  ! 
From  what  sunny  clime  hast  thou  wandered  away  1 
And  what  art  thou  doing  this  cold  winter  day  1 

'I'm  pecking  the  gum  from  the  old  peach  tree, 
The  storm  does'nt  trouble  me  ! — Pee,  dee,  dee.' 

But  what  makes  thee  seem  so  unconscious  of  care] 
The  brown  earth  is  frozen,  the  branches  are  bare  ! 
And  how  canst  thou  be  so  light-hearted  and  free, 
Like  Liberty's  form  with  the  spirit  of  glee, 
When  no  place  is  near  for  thine  evening  rest, 
No  leaf  for  thy  screen,  for  thy  bosom  no  nest  ? 

'  Because  the  same  hand  is  a  shelter  for  me, 
That  took  off  the  summer  leaves ! — Pee,  dec,  dee.' 


\\2 


V  0  I  C  P:  S    OF   THE    'I'  R  U  E  -  H  E  A  R  T  E  D  . 


Bui  man  feels  a  burden  of  want  and  of  grief, 
While  plucking  the  cluster  and  binding  the  sheaf! 
We  take  from  the  ocean,  the  earth,  and  the  air; 
And  all  their  rich  gifts  do  not  silence  our  care. 
In  summer  we  faint;  in  the  winter  we're  chilled, 
With  ever  a  void  that  is  yet  to  be  filled. 
<  A  very  small  [)ortion  sufficient  will  be, 
If  sweetened  with  gratitude  ! — Pee,  dee,  dee.' 

I  thank  thee, bright  monitor!  what  thou  hast  taught 
Will  oft  be  the  theme  of  the  happiest  thought; 
We  look  at  the  clouds,  while  the  bird  has  an  eye 
To  him  who  reigns  over  them  changeless  and  high  ! 
And  now,  little  hero,  just  tell  me  thy  name, 
That  1  may  be  sure  whence  my  oracle  came. 

«  Because  in  all  weather  I'm  happy  and  free. 

They  call  me  the  Winteu  King  !— Pee,  dee,  dee.' 

But   soon  there'll    be    ice    weighing   down  the    light 

bough 
Whereon  thou  art  fleeting  so  merrily  now  ! 
And  though  there's  a  vesture  well-fitted  and  warm. 
Protecting  the  rest  of  thy  delicate  form. 
What  then  wilt  thou  do  with  thy  little  bare  feet 
To  save  them  from  pain  'mid  the  frost  and  the  sleet  1 

« I  can  draw  them  right  up  in  my  feathers  you  see  ! 
To  warm  them,  and  fly  away  !— Pee,  dee,  dee.' 

THE  RISING  EAGLE. 
My  bird,  the  struggle's  over  ! 

Thy  wings,  at  length  unfurled, 
Will  bear  thee,  noble  rover, 

Through  yon  blue  airy  world. 

Thy  fearless  breast  has  shaken 

Earth's  dust  and  dew  away ; 
Thine  eye  its  aim  has  taken — 

Its  mark  the  orb  of  day. 

Up,  up,  the  faster  leaving 

Thy  rocky  rest  below, 
A  fresher  strength  receiving. 

The  lighter  shalt  thou  go. 

The  clouds  that  hang  before  thee 

Thou  soon  shalt  over-sweep. 
Where  all  is  brightness  o'er  thee, 

To  swim  the  upper  deep. 

Through  seas  of  ether  sailing. 

Thou  lofty,  valiant  one! 
The  breath  of  morn  inhaling. 

Thy  course  is  to  the  sun. 

The  strife  was  all  in  lifting 

Thy  breast  from  earth  at  first, 
The  poising,  and  the  shifting 

To  balance,  was  the  worst. 

And  so  with  us  ;  'tis  spreading 

Our  pinions  for  the  skies, 
That  keeps  us  low  and  dreading 

The  first  attempt  to  rise. 


'T  is  rousing  up  and  getting 
Our  balance,  that  we  shun  ; 

With  thousand  ties  besetting, 
We  shrink  from  breaking  one. 

But  when  we've  fairly  started, 
And  cleared  from  all  below. 

How  free  and  buoyant-hearted, 
On  eagle  wings  we  go  ! 

And  as  our  bosoms  kindle 

With  pure  and  holy  love. 
How  all  below  will  dwindle, 

And  all  grow  bright  above  ! 

The  world  that  we  are  leaving 

Looks  little  in  our  sight. 
While,  clouds  and  shadows  cleaving. 

We  seek  the  Source  of  Light. 

Rise  !  timid  soul,  and  casting 

Aside  thy  doubt  and  fear. 
Mount  up  where  all  is  lasting; 

For  all  is  dying  here! 

Then,  as  an  eagle  training 

Her  tender  young  to  fly. 
The  hand,  that's  all  sustaining, 

Will  lift  thee  to  the  sky. 

While  higher,  higher  soaring, 

Thou'lt  feel  thy  cares  are  drowned 

Where  heaven'sbright  sun  is  pouring 
A  flood  of  glory  round. 


WORSHIP  BY  THE  ROSE  TREE. 

Author  of  Beauty,  Spirit  of  Power, 

Thou,  who  didst  will  that  the  Rose  should  be, 
Here  is  the  place,  and  this  is  the  hour 

To  feel  thy  presence,  and  bow  to  thee  ! 
Bright  is  the  world  with  the  sun's  first  rays  ; 

Clear  is  the  dew  on  the  soft,  green  sod  ; 
The  Rose  Tree  blooms,  while  the  birds  sing  praise, 

And  earth  gives  glory  to  nature's  God. 

Under  this  beautiful  work  of  thine, 

The  flowery  boughs  that  are  bending  o'er 
The  glistening  turf,  to  thy  will  divine 

I  kneel,  and  its  Maker  and  mine  adore. 
Thou  art  around  us.     Thy  robe  of  light 

Touches  the  gracefully  waving  tree. 
Turning  to    jewels  the  tears  of  night, 

And  making  the  buds  unfold  to  thee. 

Traced  is  thy  name  in  delicate  lines 

On  flower  and  leaf,  as  they  dress  the  stem. 
Thy  care  is  seen,  and  thy  wisdom  shines 

In  even  the  thorn  that  is  guarding  them. 
Now,  while  the  Rose  that  has  burst  her  cup 

Opens  her  heart,  and  freely  throws 
To  me  her  odors,  I  oflcr  up 

Thanks  to  the  Being,  who  made  the  Rose '. 


VOICES  or  THE  TRUE  HEARTED. 


(Q)o 


HEROISM. 


BY  RALFH  WALDO  EMEESON. 


In  the  elder  English  dramatists,  and  mainly  in  the 
plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  there  is  a  constant 
recognition  of  gentility,  as  if  a  noble  behavior  were 
as  easily  marked  in  the  society  of  their  age,  as  color 
is  in  our  American  population.  When  any  Rodrigo. 
Pedro,  or  Valerio  enters,  though  he  be  a  stranger, 
the  duke  or  governor  exclaims.  This  is  a  gentle- 
man,— and  proffers  civilities  without  end  ;  but  all 
the  rest  are  slag  and  refuse.  In  harmony  with  this 
delight  in  personal  advantages,  there  is  in  their  plays 
a  certain  heroic  cast  of  character  and  dialogue,  —  as 
in  Bonduca,  Sophocles,  the  Mad  Lover,  the  Double 
Marriage, — wherein  the  speaker  is  so  earnest  and 
cordial,  and  on  such  deep  grounds  of  character,  that 
the  dialogue,  on  the  slightest  additional  incident  in 
the  plot,  rises  naturally  into  poetry.  Among  many 
texts,  take  the  following.  The  Roman  Martius  has 
conquered  Athens, — all  but  the  invincible  spirits  of 
Sophocles,  the  duke  of  Athens,  and  Dorigen,  his 
wife.  The  beauty  of  the  latter  inflames  Martius, 
and  he  seeks  to  save  her  husband  ;  but  Sophocles 
will  not  ask  his  life,  although  assured  that  a  word 
will  save  him,  and  the  execution  of  both  proceeds. 

Valerius.     Bid  thy  wife  farewell. 

Soph.     No,  I  will  take  no  leave.     My  Dorigen, 
Yonder,  above,  'bout  Ariadne's  crown. 
My  spirit  shall  hover  for  thee.     Prithee,  haste. 

Dor.    Stay,  Sophocles, — with  this,  tie  up  my  sight; 
Let  not  soft  nature  so  transformed  be. 
And  lose  her  gentler  sexed  humanity. 
To  make  me  see  my  lord  bleed.     So,  'tis  well ; 
Never  one  object  underneath  the  sun 
Will  I  behold  before  my  Sophocles  : 
Farewell;  now  teach  the  Romans  how  to  die. 

Mar.     Dost  know  what  't  is  to  die  ? 

Soph.     Thou  dost  not,  Martius, 
And  therefore,  not  what  't  is  to  live ;  to  die 
Is  to  begin  to  live.     It  is  to  end 
An  old,  stale,  weary  work,  and  to  commence 
A  newer,  and  a  better.     'T  is  to  leave 
Deceitful  knaves  for  the  society 
Of  gods  and  goodness.     Thou,  thyself,  must  part 
At  last,  from  all  thy  garlands,  pleasures,  triumphs, 
And  prove  thy  fortitude  what  then  't  will  do. 

Val.     But  art  not  grieved  nor  vexed  to  leave  thy 
life  thus  ? 

Soph.     Why  should  I  grieve  or  vex  for  being  sent 
To  them  I  ever  loved  best  ?      Now,  I'll  kneel. 


But  with  my  back  toward  thee  ;  'tis  the  last  duty 
This  trunk  can  do  the  gods. 

Mar.     Strike,  strike,  Valerius, 
Or  -VTartius'  heart  will  leap  out  at  his  mouth : 
This  is  a  man,  a  woman  I  Kiss  thy  lord. 
And  live  with  all  the  freedom  you  were  wont. 
O  love !  thou  doubly  hast  afflicted  rne 
With  virtue  and  with  beauty.     Treacherous  heart, 
My  hand  shall  cast  thee  quick  into  my  urn. 
Ere  thou  transgress  this  knot  of  piety. 
Val.     What  ails  my  brother  ? 
Soph.     Martius,  oh  Martius, 
Thou  now  hast  found  a  way  to  conquer  me. 

Dor.     O  star  of  Rome  !  what  gratitude  can  speak 
Fit  words  to  follow  such  a  deed  as  this  ? 
Mar.     This  admirable  duke,  Valerius, 
With  his  disdain  of  fortune  and  of  death, 
Captived  himself,  has  captivated  me  ; 
And  though  my  arm  hath  ta'en  his  body  here, 
His  soul  hath  subjugated  Martius'  soul. 
By  Romulus,  he  is  all  soul,  I  think; 
He  hath  no  flesh,  and  spirit  cannot  be  gyved  ; 
Then  we  have  vanquished  nothing  ;  he  is  free, 
And  Martius  walks  now  in  captivity. 

I  do  not  readily  remember  any  poem,  play,  ser- 
mon, novel,  or  oration,  that  our  press  vents  in  the 
last  few  years,  which  goes  to  the  same  tune.  We 
have  a  great  many  flutes  and  flageolets,  but  not  often 
the  sound  of  any  fife.  Yet,  Wordsworth's  Laoda- 
mia,  and  the  ode  of  "  Dion,"  and  some  sonnets,  have 
a  certain  noble  music ;  and  Scott  will  sometimes 
draw  a  stroke  like  the  portrait  of  Lord  Evandale, 
given  by  Balfour  of  Burley.  Thomas  Carlyle,  with 
his  natural  taste  for  what  is  manly  and  daring  in 
character,  has  suffered  no  heroic  trait  in  his  favorites 
to  drop  from  his  biographical  and  historical  pictures. 
Earlier,  Robert  Burns  has  given  us  a  song  or  two. 
In  the  Harleian  Miscellanies,  there  is  an  account  of 
the  battle  of  Lutzen,  which  deserves  to  be  read. 
And  Simon  Ockley's  History  of  the  Saracens  re- 
counts the  prodigies  of  individual  valor  with  admi- 
ration, all  the  more  evident  on  the  part  of  the  nar- 
rator, that  he  seems  to  think  that  his  place  in  Chris- 
tian Oxford  requires  of  him  some  proper  protestations 
of  abhorrence.  But  if  we  explore  the  literature  of 
Heroism,  we  shall  quickly  come  to  Plutarch,  who 
is  its  Doctor  and  historian.  To  him  we  owe  the 
Brasidas,  the  Dion,  the  Epaminondas,  the  Scipio  of 
old,  and  I  must  think  we  are  more  deeply  indebted 
to  him  than  to  all  the  ancient  writers.  Each  of  his 
"Lives"   is  a  refutation   to  the   despondency  and 


114 


VOICES    OF   T  n  K     I'  R  LM:  -  H  E  A  R  r  E  D 


cowardice  of  our  religious  and  political  theorists. 
A  wild  courage,  a  stoicism  not  of  the  schools,  but 
of  the  blood,  shines  in  every  anecdote,  and  has  given 
that  book  its  immense  fame. 

We  need  books  of  this  tart  cathartic  virtue,  more 
than  books  of  political  science,  or  of  private  econo- 
my. Life  is  a  festival  only  to  the  wise.  Seen  from 
the  nook  and  chimney-side  of  prudence,  it  wears  a 
ragged  and  dangerous  front.  The  violations  of  the 
laws  of  nature  by  our  predecessors  and  our  contem- 
poraries, are  punished  in  us  also.  The  disease  and 
deformity  around  us,  certify  the  infraction  of  natu- 
ral, intellectual,  and  moral  laws,  and  often  viola- 
tion on  violation  to  breed  such  compound  misery. 
A  lock-jaw,  that  bends  a  man's  head  back  to  his 
heels,  hydrophobia,  that  makes  him  bark  at  his  wife 
and  babes,  insanity,  that  makes  him  eat  grass;  war, 
plague,  cholera,  famine,  indicate  a  certain  ferocity 
in  nature,  which,  as  it  had  its  inlet  by  human  crime, 
must  have  its  outlet  by  human  suffering.  Unhappily, 
almost  no  man  exists,  who  has  not  in  his  own  per- 
son, become  to  some  amount,  a  stockholder  in  the  sin, 
and  so  made  himself  liable  to  a  share  in  the  expiation. 
Our  culture,  therefore,  must  not  omit  the  arming 
of  the  man.  Let  him  hear  in  season,  that  he  is  born 
into  the  state  of  war,  and  that  the  commonwealth 
and  his  own  well-being  require  that  he  should  not 
go  dancing  in  the  weeds  of  peace,  but  warned,  self 
collected,  and  neither  defying  nor  dreading  the 
thunder,  let  him  take  both  reputation  and  life  in  his 
hand,  and  with  perfect  urbanity  dare  the  gibbet  and 
the  mob  by  the  absolute  truth  of  his  speech,  and  the 
rectitude  of  his  behaviour. 

Towards  all  this  external  evil,  the  man  within  the 
breast  assumes  a  warlike  attitude,  and  affirms  his 
ability  to  cope  single-handed  with  the  infinite  army 
of  enemies.  To  this  military  attitude  of  the  soul, 
we  give  the  name  of  Heroistn.  Its  rudest  form  is 
the  contempt  for  safety  and  ease,  which  makes  the 
attractiveness  of  war.  It  is  a  self-trust  which  slights 
the  restraints  of  prudence  in  the  plenitude  of  its 
energy  and  power  to  repair  the  harms  it  may  suffer. 
The  hero  is  a  mind  of  such  balance  that  no  disturb- 
ances can  shake  his  will,  but  pleasantly,  and,  as  it 
were,  merrily,  he  advances  to  his  own  music,  alike 
in  frightful  alarms,  and  in  the  tipsy  mirth  of  univer- 
sal dissoluteness.  'J'here  is  somewhat  not  philoso- 
phical in  heroism  ;  there  is  somewhat  not  holy  in 
it  ;  it  seems  not  to  know  that  other  souls  are  of  one 
texture  with  it ;  it  hath  pride ;  it  is  the  extreme  of 
individual  nature.  Nevertheless,  we  must  profound- 
ly revere  it.  There  is  somewhat  in  great  actions, 
which  does  not  allow  us  to  go  behind  them.  Hero- 
ism feels  and  never  reasons,  and  therefore  is  always 
right,  and,  although  a  diflerent  breeding,  diflijrent 
religion,  and  greater  intellectual  activity,  would 
have  modified,  or  even  reversed  the  particular  action, 
yet  for  tiie  hero,  that  thing  he  does,  is  the  highest 
deed,  and  is  not  open  to  the  censure  of  philosophers 


or  divines.  It  is  the  avowal  of  the  unschooled  man, 
that  he  finds  a  quality  in  him  that  is  negligent  of 
expense,  of  health,  of  life,  of  danger,  of  hatred,  of 
reproach,  and  that  he  knows  that  his  will  is  higher 
and  more  excellent  than  all  actual  and  all  possible 
antagonists. 

Heroism  works  in  contradiction  to  the  voice  of 
mankind,  and  in  contradiction,  for  a  time,  to  the 
voice  of  the  great  and  good.  Heroism  is  an  obedi- 
ence to  a  secret  impulse  of  an  individual's  character. 
Now  to  no  other  man  can  its  wisdom  appear  as  it  does 
to  him,  for  every  man  must  be  supposed  to  see  a  little 
farther  on  his  own  proper  path,  than  any  one  else. 
Therefore,  just  and  wise  men  take  umbrage  at  his 
act,  until  after  some  little  time  be  past :  then, 
they  see  it  to  be  in  unison  with  their  acts.  All 
prudent  men  see  that  the  action  is  clean  contrary  to 
a  sensual  prosperity;  for  every  heroic  act  measures 
itself  by  its  contempt  of  some  external  good.  But 
it  finds  its  own  success  at  last,  and  then  the  prudent 
also  extol. 

S^elf  trust  is  the  essence  of  heroism.  It  is  the 
state  of  the  soul  at  war,  and  its  ultimate  objects  are 
the  last  defiance  of  falsehood  and  wrong,  and  the 
power  to  bear  all  that  can  be  inflicted  by  evil  agents. 
It  speaks  the  truth,  and  it  is  just.  It  is  generous,  hos- 
pitable, temperate,  scornful  of  petty  calculations, 
and  scornful  of  being  scorned  It  persists  ;  it  is  of 
an  undaunted  boldness,  and  of  a  fortitude  not  to  be 
wearied  out.  Its  jest  is  the  litt'encss  of  common 
life.  That  false  prudence  which  dotes  on  health  and 
wealth,  is  the  foil,  the  butt  and  merriment  of  hero- 
ism. Heroism,  like  Piotinus,  is  almost  ashamed  of 
its  body.  What  shall  it  say,  then,  to  the  sugar- 
plums, and  cats'-cradles,  to  the  toilet,  compliments, 
quarrels,  cards,  and  custard,  which  rack  the  wit  of 
all  human  society.  What  joys  has  kind  nature  pro- 
vided for  us  dear  creatures  I  There  seems  to  be  no 
interval  between  greatness  and  meanness.  When 
the  spirit  is  not  master  of  the  world,  then  is  it  its 
dupe.  Yet  the  little  man  takes  the  great  hoax  so 
innocently,  w-orks  in  it  so  headlong  and  believing,  is 
born  red,  and  dies  gray,  arranging  his  toilet,  attend- 
ing on  his  own  health,  laying  traps  for  sweet  food 
and  strong  wine,  setting  his  heart  on  a  horse  or  a 
trifle,  made  happy  with  a  little  gossip,  or  a  little 
praise,  that  the  great  soul  cannot  choose  but  laugh 
at  such  earnest  nonsense.  '-Indeed,  these  humble 
considerations  make  me  out  of  love  with  greatness. 
V\  liat  a  disgrace  is  it  to  me  to  take  note  how  many 
pairs  of  silk  stockings  thou  hast,  namely,  these  and 
those  that  were  the  peach-colored  ones,  or  to  hear 
the  inventory  of  thy  shirts,  as  one  for  supoilluity 
and  one  other  for  use." 

Citizens,  thinking  after  the  laws  of  arithmetic, 
(.oiisider  the  inconvenience  of  receiving  strangers  at 
their  fireside,  reckon  narrowly  the  loss  of  time  and 
the  unusual  display:  the  soul  of  a  better  quality 
thrusts   back    the   unseasonable    economy  into    the 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED, 


115 


vaults  of  life,  and  says,  I  will  obey  the  God,  and  the 
sacrifice  and  the  fire  he  will  provide.  Ibn  llankal, 
the  Arabian  ijeo^rapher,  describes  a  heroic  extreme 
in  the  hospitality  of  Sogd,  in  Bn';haria.  "  When  I 
was  in  Sogd,  I  saw  a  great  building,  like  a  palace, 
the  gates  of  which  were  open  nnd  fixed  back  to  the 
wall  with  large  nails.  I  asked  the  reason,  and  was 
told  that  the  house  had  not  been  shut  night  or  day, 
for  a  hundred  years,  t^'trangers  may  present  them- 
selves at  any  hour,  and  in  whatever  number;  the 
master  has  amply  provided  for  the  reception  of  the 
men  and  their  animals,  and  is  never  happier  than 
when  they  tarry  for  some  time.  Nothing  of  the 
kind  have  I  seen  in  any  other  country."  The  mag- 
nanimous know  very  well  that  they  who  give  time, 
or  money,  or  shelter,  to  the  stranger — so  it  ba  done 
for  love,  and  not  for  ostentation — do,  as  it  were, 
put  God  under  obligation  to  them,  so  perfect  are 
the  compensations  of  the  universe.  In  some  way, 
the  time  they  seem  to  lose,  is  redeemed,  and 
the  pains  they  seem  to  take,  remunerate  themselves. 
These  men  fan  the  flame  of  human  love  and  raise 
the  standard  of  civil  virtue  among  mankind.  But 
hospitality  must  be  for  service,  and  not  for  show,  or 
it  pulls  down  the  host.  The  brave  soul  rates  itself 
too  high  to  value  itself  by  the  splendor  of  its  table 
and  draperies.  It  gives  what  it  hath,  and  all  it 
hath,  but  its  own  majesty  can  lend  a  better  grace  to 
bannocks  and  fair  water,  than  belong  to  city  feasts. 

The  temperance  of  the  hero,  proceeds  from  the 
same  wish  to  do  no  dishonor  to  the  worthiness  he  has. 
But  he  loves  it  for  its  elegancy,  not  for  its  austerity. 
It  seems  not  worth  his  while  to  be  solemn,  and  de- 
nounce with  bitterness  flesh-eating,  or  wine-drink- 
ing, the  use  of  tobacco,  or  opium,  or  tea,  or  silk, 
or  gold.  A  great  man  scarcely  knows  how  he  dines, 
how  he  dresses,  but  without  railing  or  precision, 
his  living  is  natural  and  poetic.  John  Eliot,  the 
Indian  Apostle,  drank  water,  and  said  of  wine,  "  It 
is  a  noble,  generous  liquor,  and  we  should  be  hum- 
bly thankful  for  it,  but,  as  I  remember,  water  was 
made  before  it."  Better  still,  is  the  temperance  of 
king  David,  who  poured  out  on  the  ground  unto  the 
Lord,  the  water  which  three  of  his  warriors  had 
brought  him  to  drink,  at  the  peril  of  their  lives. 

It  is  told  of  Brutus,  that  when  he  fell  on  his 
sword,  after  the  battle  of  Philippi,  he  quoted  a  line 
of  Euripides,  "  O  virtue,  I  have  followed  thee 
through  life,  and  I  find  thee  at  last  but  a  shade."  I 
doubt  not  the  hero  is  slandered  by  this  report.  The 
heroic  soul  does  not  sell  its  justice  and  its  noble- 
ness. It  does  not  ask  to  dine  nicely,  and  to  sleep 
warm.  The  essence  of  greatness  is  the  perception 
that  virtue  is  enough.  Poverty  is  its  ornament 
Plenty,  it  does  not  need,  and  can  very  well  abide  its 
loss. 

But  that  which  takes  my  fancy  most,  in  the  heroic 
class,  is  the  good  humor  and  hilarity  they  exhibit. 
It  is  a  height  to  which  common  duty  can  very  well 


attain,  to  sufl:er  and  to  dare  with  solemnity.  But 
these  rare  souls  set  opinion,  success,  and  life,  at  so 
cheap  a  rate,  that  they  will  not  soothe  their  enemies 
by  petitions  or  the  show  of  sorrow,  but  wear  their  own 
habitual  greatness.  Scipio,  charged  with  peculation, 
refuses  to  do  himself  so  great  a  disgrace,  as  to  wait 
for  justification,  though  he  had  the  scroll  of  his  ac- 
counts in  his  hands,  but  tears  it  to  pieces  before  the 
tribunes.  Socrates' condemnation  of  himself  to  be 
maintained  in  all  honor  in  the  Prytaneum,  during 
his  life,  and  Sir  Tho  ras  More's  playfulness  at  the 
scaffold,  are  of  the  same  strain.  In  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's  "  Sea  Voyage,"  Juletta  tells  the  stout 
captain  and  his  company, 

.htJ.     Why,  slaves,  'tis  in  our  power  to  hang  ye. 
Master.  Very  likely. 

'T  is  in  our  powers,  tlien,  to  be  hanged,  and  scorn  ye. 

These  replies  are  sound  and  whole.  Sport  is  the 
bloom  and  glow  of  a  perfect  health.  The  great  will 
not  condescend  to  take  any  thing  seriously ;  all  must 
be  as  gay  as  the  song  of  a  canary,  though  it  were  the 
building  of  cities  or  the  eradication  of  old  and  fool- 
ish churches  and  nations,  which  have  cumbered  the 
earth  long  thousands  of  years.  Simple  hearts  put 
all  the  history  and  customs  of  this  world  behind 
them,  and  play  their  own  play  in  innocent  defiance 
of  the  Blue-Laws  of  the  world  ;  and  such  would  ap- 
pear, could  we  see  the  human  race  assembled  in 
vision,  like  little  children  frolicking  together, 
though,  to  the  eyes  of  mankind  at  large,  they  wear 
a  stately  and  solemn  garb  of  works  and  influences. 

The  interest  these  fine  stories  have  for  us,  the 
power  of  a  romance  over  the  boy  who  grasps  the 
forbidden  book  under  his  bench  at  school,  our  de- 
light in  the  hero,  is  the  main  fact  to  our  purpose. 
All  these  great  and  transcendent  properties  are  ours. 
If  we  dilate  in  beholding  the  Greek  energy,  the 
Roman  pride,  it  is  that  we  are  already  domesticat- 
ing the  same  sentiment.  Let  us  find  room  for  this 
great  guest  in  our  small  houses.  The  first  step  of 
worthiness  will  be  to  disabuse  ns  of  our  supersti- 
tious associations  with  places  and  limes,  with  num- 
ber and  size.  Why  should  these  words,  Athenian, 
Roman,  Asia,  and  England,  so  tingle  in  the  ear. 
Let  us  feel  that  where  the  heart  is,  there  the  muses, 
there  the  gods  sojourn,  and  not  in  any  geography  of 
fame.  Massachusetts,  Connecticut  River,  and  Boston 
Bay,  you  think  paltry  places,  and  the  ear  loves 
names  of  foreign  and  classic  topography.  'But  here 
we  are  ; — that  is  a  great  fact,  and,  if  we  will  tarry 
a  little,  we  may  come  to  learn  that  here  is  best. 
See  to  it,  only  that  thyself  is  here  ; — and  art  and 
nature,  hope  and  dread,  friends,  angels,  and  the 
Supreme  Being,  shall  not  be  absent  from  the  cham- 
ber where  thou  sittest.  Epaminondas,  brave  and 
affectionate,  does  not  seem  to  us  to  need  Olympus  to 
die  upon,  nor  the  Syrian  sunshine.  He  lies  very  well 
where  he  is.  The  Jerseys  were  handsome  ground 
enough  for  Washington  to  tread,  and  London  streets 


116 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED- 


for  the  feet  of  Milton.  A  great  man  illustrates  his 
place,  makes  his  climate  genial  in  the  imagination 
of  men,  and  its  air  the  beloved  element  of  all  deli- 
cate spirits.  That  country  is  the  fairest,  which  is 
inhabited  by  the  noblest  minds.  The  pictures 
which  fill  the  imagination  in  reading  the  actions  of 
Pericles,  Xenophon,  Columbus,  Bayard,  Sidney, 
Hampden,  teach  us  how  needlessly  mean  our  life  is, 
that  we,  by  the  depth  of  our  living,  should  deck  it 
with  more  than  regal  or  national  splendor,  and  act 
on  principles  that  should  interest  man  and  nature  in 
the  length  of  our  days. 

We  have  seen  or  heard  of  many  extraordinary 
young  men,  who  never  ripened,  or  whose  perform- 
ance in  actual  life,  was  not  extraordinary.  When 
we  see  their  air  and  mien,  when  we  hear  them  speak 
of  society,  of  books,  of  religion,  we  admire  their 
superiority,  they  seem  to  throw  contempt  on  the 
whole  state  of  the  world  ;  theirs  is  the  tone  of  a 
youthful  giant,  who  is  sent  to  work  revolutions. 
Bnt  they  enter  an  active  profession,  and  the  forming 
Colossus  shrinks  to  the  common  size  of  man.  The 
magic  they  used,  was  the  ideal  tendencies,  which 
always  make  the  Actual  ridiculous  ;  but  the  tough 
world  had  its  revenge  the  moment  they  put  their 
horses  of  the  sun  to  plough  in  its  furrow.  They 
found  no  example  and  no  companion,  and  their  heart 
fainted.  What  then  ?  The  lesson  they  gave  in 
their  first  aspirations,  is  yet  true,  and  a  better  valor, 
and  a  purer  truth,  shall  one  day  execute  their  will, 
and  put  the  world  to  shame.  Or  why  should  a 
woman  liken  herself  to  any  historical  woman,  and 
think,  because  Sappho,  or  Sevigne,  or  De  Stael,  or 
the  cloistered  souls  who  have  had  genius  and  culti- 
vation, do  not  satisfy  the  imagination,  and  the  serene 
Themis,  none  can, — certainly  not  she.  Why  not  ? 
She  has  a  new  and  unattempted  problem  to  solve, 
perchance  that  of  the  happiest  nature  that  ever 
bloomed.  Let  the  maiden,  with  erect  soul,  walk 
serenely  on  her  way,  accept  the  hint  of  each  new 
experience,  try,  in  turn,  all  the  gifts  God  offers  her, 
that  she  may  learn  the  power  and  the  charm,  that 
like  a  new  dawn  radiating  out  of  the  deep  of  space, 
her  new-born  being  is.  The  fair  girl,  who  repels 
interference  by  a  decided  and  proud  choice  of  influ- 
ences, so  careless  of  pleasing,  so  wilful  and  lofty, 
inspires  every  beholder  with  somewhat  of  her  own 
nobleness.  The  silent  heart  encourages  her ;  O 
friend,  never  .strike  sail  to  a  fear.  Come  into  port 
greatly,  or  sail  with  God  the  seas.  Not  in  vain  you 
live,  for  every  passing  eye  is  cheered  and  refined  by 
the  vision. 

The  characteristic  of  a  genuine  heroism  is  its  per- 
sistency. All  men  have  wandering  impulses,  fits 
and  starts  of  generosity.  But  when  you  have  re- 
solved to  be  great,  abide  by  yourself,  and  do  not 
weakly  try  to  reconcile  yourself  with  the  world. 
The  heroic  cannot  be  the  common,  nor  the  common 
the  heroic.       Yet  we  have  the  weakness  to  expect 


the  sympathy  of  people  in  those  actions  whose  ex- 
cellence is  that  they  outrun  sympathy,  and  appear 
to  a  tardy  justice.  If  you  would  serve  your  brother, 
because  it  is  fit  for  you  to  aerve  him,  do  not  take 
back  your  words  when  you  find  that  prudent  people 
do  not  commend  you.  Be  true  to  your  own  act, 
and  congratulate  yourself  if  you  have  done  some- 
thing strange  and  extravagant,  and  broken  the  mo- 
notony of  a  decorous  age.  It  was  a  high  counsel 
that  I  once  heard  given  to  a  young  person,  "  Always 
do  what  you  are  afraid  to  do."  A  simple  manly 
character  need  never  make  an  apology,  but  should 
regard  its  past  action  with  the  calmness  of  Phocion, 
when  he  admitted  that  the  event  of  the  battle  was 
^^PPy^  yet  did  not  regret  his  dissuasion  from  the 
battle. 

There  is  no  weakness  or  exposure  for  which  we 
cannot  find  consolation  in  the  thought, — this  is  a  part 
of  my  constitution,  part  of  my  relation  and  office  to 
my  fellow  creature.  Has  nature  covenanted  with 
me  that  I  should  never  appear  to  disadvantage, 
never  make  a  ridiculous  figure  ?  Let  us  be  generous 
of  our  dignity,  as  well  as  of  our  money.  Great- 
ness once  and  forever  has  done  with  opinion.  We 
tell  our  charities,  not  because  we  wish  to  be 
praised  for  them,  not  because  we  think  they  have 
great  merit,  but  for  our  justification.  It  is  a  capital 
blunder  ;  as  you  discover,  when  another  man  recites 
his  charities. 

To  speak  the  truth,  even  with  some  austerity,  to 
live  with  some  rigor  of  temperance,  or  some  ex- 
tremes of  generosity,  seems  to  be  an  asceticism 
which  common  good  nature  would  appoint  to  those 
who  are  at  ease  and  in  plenty,  in  sign  that  they  feel 
a  brotherhood  with  the  great  multitude  of  suffering 
men.  And  not  only  need  we  breathe  and  exercise 
the  soul  by  assuming  the  penalties  of  abstinence,  of 
debt,  of  solitude,  of  unpopularity,  but  it  behoves  the 
wise  man  to  look  with  a  bold  eye  into  those  rarer 
dangers  which  sometimes  invade  men,  and  to  fami- 
liarize himself  with  disgusting  forms  of  disease, 
with  sounds  of  execration,  and  the  vision  of  violent 
death. 

Times  of  heroism  are  generally  times  of  terror, 
but  the  day  never  shines  in  which  this  element 
may  not  work.  The  circumstances  of  man,  we  say, 
are  historically  somewhat  better  in  this  country, 
and  at  this  hour,  than  perhaps  ever  before.  More 
freedom  exists  for  culture.  It  will  not  now  run 
against  an  axe,  at  the  first  step  out  of  the  beaten 
track  of  opinion.  But  whoso  is  heroic,  will  always 
find  crises  to  try  his  edge.  Human  virtue  demands 
her  champions  and  martyrs,  and  the  trial  of  persecu- 
tion always  proceeds.  It  is  but  the  other  day,  that 
the  brave  Lovejoy  gave  his  breast  to  the  bullets  of 
a  mob,  for  the  rights  of  free  speech  and  opinion,  and 
died  wlien  it  was  better  not  to  live. 

I  see  not  any  road  of  perfect  peace,  which  a  man 
can  walk  but  to  take  counsel  of  his  own  bosom.  Let 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


117 


him  quit  too  much  association,  let  him  go  home 
much,  and  stablish  himself  in  those  courses  he  ap- 
proves. The  unremitting  retention  of  simple  and 
high  sentiments  in  obscure  duties,  is  hardening  the 
character  to  that  temper  which  will  work  with 
honor,  if  need  be,  in  the  tumult,  or  on  the  scaffold. 
Whatever  outrages  have  happened  to  men,  may  be- 
fall a  man  again  :  and  very  easily  in  a  republic,  if 
there  appear  any  signs  of  a  decay  of  religion. 
Coarse  slander,  fire,  tar  and  feathers,  and  the  gibbet, 
the  youth  may  freely  bring  home  to  his  mind,  and 
with  what  sweetness  of  temper  he  can,  and  inquire 
how  fast  he  can  fix  his  sense  of  duty,  braving  such 
penalties,  whenever  it  may  please  the  next  news- 
paper, and  a  sufficient  number  of  his  neighbors  to 
pronounce  his  opinions  incendiary. 

It  may  calm  the  apprehension  of  calamity  in  the 
most  susceptible  heart,  to  see  how  quick  a  bound 
nature  has  set  to  the  utmost  infliction  of  malice.  We 
rapidly  approach  a  brink  over  which  no  enemy  can 
follow  us. 

"  Let  them  rave  : 
Thou  art  quiet  in  the  grave." 

In  the  gloom  of  our  ignorance  of  what  shall  be,  in 
the  hour  when  we  are  deaf  to  the  higher  voices,  who 
does  not  envy  them  who  have  seen  safely  to  an  end 
their  manful  endeavor?  "Who  that  sees  the  mean- 
ness of  our  politics,  but  inly  congratulates  Wash- 
ington, that  he  is  long  already  wrapped  in  his  shroud, 
and  forever  safe ;  that  he  was  laid  sweet  in  his 
grave,  the  hope  of  humanity  not  yet  subjugated  in 
him  ?  Who  does  not  sometimes  envy  the  good  and 
brave,  who  are  no  more  to  suffer  from  the  tumults 
of  the  natural  world,  and  await  with  curious  com- 
placency the  speedy  term  of  his  own  conversation 
with  finite  nature  ?  And  yet  the  love  that  will  be 
annihilated  sooner  than  treacherous,  has  already 
made  death  impossible,  and  affirms  itself  no  mortal, 
but  a  native  of  the  deeps  of  absolute  and  inextin- 
guishable being. 


ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS,  BY  JOHN   TIERPONT. 

THE    CHAIN. 

Is  it  is  his  daily  toil,  that  wrings 

From  the  slave's  bosom  that  deep  sigh  ? 

Is  it  his  niggard  fare,  that  brings 
The  tear  into  his  down-cast  eye  ? 

O  no ;  by  toil  and  humble  fare. 

Earth's  sons  their  health  and  vigor  gain  ; 
It  is  because  the  slave  must  wear 
His  chain. 

Is  it  the  sweat,  from  every  pore 
That  starts,  and  glistens  in  the  sun, 

As,  the  young  cotton  bending  o'er, 
His  naked  back  it  shines  upon  ? 


Is  it  the  drops  that,  from  his  breast, 

Into  the  thirsty  furrow  full. 
That  scald  his  soul,  deny  him  rest. 

And  turn  his  cup  of  life  to  gall  1 

No  ; — for,  that  man  with  sweating  brow 
Shall  eat  his  bread,  doth  God  ordain; 
This  the  slave's  spirit  doth  not  bow; 
It  is  his  chain. 

Is  it,  that  scorching  sands  and  skies 

Upon  his  velvet  skin  hath  set 
A  hue,  admired  in  beauty's  eyes. 

In  Genoa's  silks,  and  polished  jet? 

No;  for  this  color  was  his  pride. 

When  roaming  o'er  his  native  plain ; 
Even  here,  his  hue  can  he  abide. 

But  not  his  chain. 

Nor  is  it,  that  his  back  and  limbs 
Are  scored  with  many  a  gory  gash. 

That  his  heart  bleeds,  and  his  brain  swims, 
And  the  M.\n  dies  beneath  the  lash. 

For  Baal's  priests,  on  Carmel's  slope. 

Themselves  with  knives  and  lancets  scored. 

Till  the  blood  spirted, — in  the  hope 

The  God  would  hear,  whom  they  adored ; — 

And  Christian  flagellants  their  backs, 
All  naked,  to  the  scourge  have  given; 

And  martyrs  to  their  stakes  and  racks 

Have  gone,  of  choice,  in  hope  of  heaven  ; — 

For  here  there  was  an  inward  will  I 
Here  spake  the  spirit,  upward  tending; 

And  o'er  Faith's  cloud-girt  altar,  still, 

Hope  hung  her  rainbow,  heavenward  bending 

But  will  and  hope  hath  not  the  slave. 

His  bleeding  spirit  to  sustain  : — 
No, — he  must  drag  on,  to  the  grave, 
His  chain. 


THE  FUGITIVE   SLAVE'S  APOSTROPHE  TO 
THE  NORTH  STAR. 

Star  of  the  North  !  though  night-winds  drift 

The  fleecy  drapery  of  the  sky. 
Between  thy  lamp  and  me,  I  lift, 

Yea,  lift  vv^ith  hope  my  sleepless  eye. 
To  the  blue  heights  wherein  thou  dwellest. 
And  of  a  land  of  freedom  tellest. 

Star  of  the  North  !  while  blazing  day 
Pours  round  me  its  full  tide  of  light, 

And  hides  thy  pale  but  faithful  ray, 
I,  too,  lie  hid,  and  long  for  night : 

For  night; — I  dare  not  walk  at  noon. 

Nor  dare  I  trust  the  faithless  moon, — 


118 


V  O  I  C  E  S    O  F     TH  E  TR  U  K  -  II  EA  R  T  E  D. 


Nor  faithless  man,  whose  burning  lust 
For  gold  hath  rivetted  my  chain  ; 

No  other  leader  can  I  trust, 

But  thee,  ol  even  the  starry  train  ; 

For,  all  the  host  around  thee  burning, 

Like  faithless  man,  ket-p  turning,  turning 

I  may  not  follow  where  Ihnj  go  : 
Star  of  the  North,  I  look  to  thee, 

While  on  I  press  ;  for  well  I  know 

Thy  light  and  truth  shall  set  me  free  ; — 

'J'hy  light,  that  no  poor  slave  decciveth  ; 

'J'hy  truth,  that  all  my  soul  believcth. 

They  of  the  East  beheld  the  star 
That  over  Bethlehem's  manger  glowed; 

With  joy  they  hailed  it  from  afar. 

And  followed  where  it  marked  the  road. 

Till,  where  its  rays  directly  fell, 

They  found  the  hope  of  Israel. 

Wise  were  the  men,  who  followed  thus 
The  star  that  sets  man  free  from  sin  ! 

Star  of  the  North  !   thou  art  to  us, — 
Who  "re  slaves  bf.cause  we  wear  a  skin 

Dark  as  is  night's  protecting  wing — 

'J'hou  art  to  us  a  holy  thing. 

And  we  are  wise  to  follow  tliee  7 
I  trust  thy  steady  light  alone  : 

Star  of  the  North  !  thou  seem'st  to  me 
To  burn  before  the  Almighty's  throne. 

To  guide  me,  through  these  forests  dim 

And  vast,  to  Liberty  and  Hi.-m. 

Thy  beam  is  on  the  glassy  breast 
Of  the  still  spring,  upon  whose  brink 

I  lay  my  weary  limbs  to  rest. 

And  bow  my  parching  lips  to  drink. 

Guide  of  the  friendless  negro's  way, 

I  bless  thee  for  this  quiet  ray  ! 

In  the  dark  top  of  southern  pines 
I  nestled,  when  the  driver's  horn 

Called  to  the  field,  in  lengthening  lines, 
My  fellows,  at  the  break  of  morn. 

And  there  I  lay.  till  thy  sweet  face 

Looked  in  upon  my  '  hiding  place.' 

The  tangled  cane-brake, — where  I  crept. 

For  shelter  from  the  heat  of  noon. 
And  where,  while  others  toiled,  I  slept, 

Till  wakened  by  the  rising  moon, — 
As  its  stalks  felt  the  night-wind  fiee, 
Gave  me  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  thee. 

Star  of  the  North  I  in  bright  array, 
The  constellations  round  thee  sweep, 

Each  holding  on  its  nightly  way. 
Rising,  or  sinking  in  the  deep, 

And,  as  it  hangs  in  mid  heaven  flaming, 

The  homage  of  some  nation  claiming. 


This  nation  to  the  Eagle*  cowers; 

Fit  ensign  !   she's  a  bird  of  spoil  ; — 
Like  worships  like  !   for  each  devours 

The  earnings  of  another's  toil. 
Ive  felt  her  talons  and  her  beak. 
And  now  the  gentler  Lion  seek. 

The  Lion,  at  the  Virgin's  feet. 
Couches,  and  lays  his  mighty  paw 

Into  her  lap  ! — an  emblem  meet 

Of  England's  Queen  and  Englisli  law  : 

Queen,  that  hath  made  her  Islands  free! 

Law  that  holds  out  its  shield  to  me  ! 

Star  of  the  Nort4i !  upon  that  shield 
Thou  shinest  I — 0,  for  ever  shine  \ 

The  negro,  from  the  cotton-field. 
Shall  then  beneath  its  orb  recline. 

And  feed  the  Lion  couched  before  it, 

Nor  heed  the  Eagle  screaming  o'er  it. 


HYMN  FOR  THE  FIRST  OF  AUGUST 

Where  Britannia's  emerald  isles 

Gem  the  Caribbean  sea. 
And  an  endless  summer  smiles, 

Lo !  the  negro  thrall  is  free! 
Yet  not  on  Columbia's  plains, 

Hath  the  sun  of  freedom  risen  : 
Here,  in  darkness  and  in  chains. 

Toiling  millions  pine  in  prison. 

Shout  ye  islands  disenthralled. 

Point  the  finger,  as  in  scorn, 
At  a  country  that  is  called 

Freedom's  home,  where  men  are  born 
Heirs,  for  life,  to  chains  and  whips, — 

Bondmen,  who  have  never  known 
Wife,  child,  parent,  that  their  lips 

Ever  dared  to  call  their  own. 

Yet,  a  Christian  land  is  this ! 

Yea,  and  ministers  of  Christ 
Slavery's  foot,  in  homage,  kiss ; 

And  their  brother,  who  is  priced, 
Higher  than  their  Saviour,  even. 

Do  they  into  bondage  sell ;  — 
Pleading  thus  the  cause  ol  Heaven. 

Serving  thus  the  cause  of  liell 

Holy  Father,  let  thy  word. 

Spoken  by  the  proplietsold, 
By  the  pliant  priest  he  heard  ; 

And  let  lips,  that  now  are  cold, 
(Chilled  by  Mammon's  golden  wand  !) 

With  our  nation's  '  burden'  glow, 
Till  the  free  man  and  the  bond 

Shout  for  Slavery's  overthrow  I 


•  The  coiistellationg,    AquUa,    Leo.  nnA    Virgo,     aif    \\ere 
iiirnnt  liv  the  niiti'diiouiirni  fiiirilive. 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


119 


THE  CELESTIAL  RAILROAD. 

BY    NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 

Not  a  great  while  ago,  passing  through  the  gate 
of  dreams,  I  visited  that  region  of  the  earth  in  which 
lies  the  famous  city  of  Destruction.  It  interested 
me  much  to  learn,  that,  by  the  public  spirit  of  sotne 
of  the  inhabitants,  a  railroad  has  recently  been  es- 
tablished between  this  populous  and  flourishing 
town,  and  the  Celestial  City.  Having  a  little  time 
upon  my  hands,  I  resolved  to  gratify  a  liberal  cu- 
riosity by  making  a  trip  thither.  Accordingly,  one 
fine  morning,  after  paying  my  bill  at  the  hotel,  and 
directing  the  porter  to  stow  my  luggage  behind  a 
coach,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  vehicle,  and  set  out  for 
the  Station-house.  It  was  my  good  Ibrtune  to  enjoy 
the  company  of  a  gentleman — one  Mr.  Smooth-it- 
away — who,  though  he  had  never  actually  visited 
the  Celestial  City,  yet  seemed  as  well  acquainted 
with  its  laws,  customs,  policy,  and  statistics,  as  with 
those  of  the  city  of  Destruction,  of  which  he  was  a 
native  townsman.  Being,  moreover,  a  director  of 
the  railroad  corporation,  and  one  of  its  largest  stock- 
holders, he  had  it  in  his  power  to  give  me  all  de- 
sirable information  respecting  that  praiseworthy  en- 
terprise. 

Our  coach  rattled  out  of  the  city,  and,  at  a  short 
distance  from  its  outskirts,  passed  over  a  bridge  of 
elegant  construction,  but  somewhat  too  slight,  as  I 
imagined,  to  sustain  any  considerable  weight.  On 
both  sides  lay  an  e.xtensive  quagmire,  which  could 
not  have  been  more  disagreeable  either  to  sight  or 
smell,  had  all  the  kennels  of  the  earth  emptied  their 
pollution  there, 

"  This,"  remarked  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  "is  the 
famous  Slough  of  Despond — a  disgrace  to  all  the 
neighborhood ;  and  the  greater,  that  it  might  so 
easily  be  converted  into  firm  ground." 

"I  have  understood,"  said  I,  "that  efforts  have 
been  made  for  that  purpose,  from  time  immemorial. 
Bunyan  mentions  that  about  twenty  thousand  cart- 
loads of  wholesome  instructions  had  been  thrown  in 
here,  without  effect." 

"  Very  probably ! — and  what  effect  could  be  an- 
ticipated from  such  unsubstantial  stuff?"  cried  Mr. 
Smooth-it-away.  "You  observe  this  convenient 
bridge.  We  obtained  a  sufficient  foundation  for  it, 
by  throwing  into  the  Slough  some  editions  of  books 
of  morality,  volumes  of  French  philosophy  and 
German  rationalism,  tracts,  sermons,  and  essays  of 
modern  clergymen,  extracts  from  Plato,  Confucius, 
and  various  Hindoo  sages,  together  with  a  few  in- 
genious commentaries  upon  texts  of  Scripture — all 
of  which,  by  some  scientific  process,  have  been  con- 
verted into  a  mass  like  granite.  The  whole  bog 
might  be  filled  up  with  similar  matter." 

It  really  seemed  to  me,  however,  that  the  bridge 
vibrated  and  heaved  up  and  down,  in  a  very  for- 
midable marmer ;  and,  spite  of  Mr.  Smooth  it-away's 


testimony  to  the  solidity  of  its  foundation,  I  should 
be  loth  to  cross  it  in  a  crowded  omnibus  ;  especially, 
if  each  passenger  were  eucumbered  with  as  heavy 
luggage  as  that  gentleman  and  myself.  Neverthe- 
less we  got  over  without  accident,  and  soon  found 
ourselves  at  the  Station-house.  '1  his  very  neat  and 
spacious  edifice  is  erected  on  the  site  of  the  little 
Wicket-Gate,  which  formerly,  as  all  olil  pilgrims 
will  recollect,  stood  directly  across  the  highway, 
and,  by  its  inconvenient  narrowness,  was  a  great 
obstruction  to  the  traveller  of  liberal  mind  and  ex- 
pansive stomach,  'i'l.e  reader  of  John  Bunyan  will 
be  glad  to  know,  that  Christian's  old  friend  Evan- 
gelist, who  was  accustomed  to  supply  each  pilgrim 
with  a  mystic  roll,  now  presides  at  the  ticket-office. 
Some  malicious  persons,  it  is  true,  deny  the  identity 
of  this  reputable  character  with  the  Evangelist  of 
old  times,  and  even  pretend  to  bring  competent 
evidence  of  an  imposture.  Wiihout  involving  my- 
self in  the  dispute,  I  shall  merely  observe,  that,  so 
far  asmy  e.xperience  goes,  the  square  pieces  of  paste- 
board, now  delivered  to  passengers,  are  much  more 
convenient  and  useful  along  the  road,  than  the  an- 
tique roll  of  parchment.  Whether  they  will  be  as 
readily  received  at  the  gate  of  the  Celestial  City,  I 
decline  giving  an  opinion. 

A  large  number  of  passengers  were  already  at  the 
Station-house,  awaiting  the  departure  of  the  cars. 
By  the  aspect  and  demeanor  of  these  persons,  it  was 
easy  to  judge  that  the  feelings  of  the  community  had 
undergone  a  very  favorable  change,  in  reference  to 
the  celestial  pilgrimage.  It  would  have  done  Bun- 
yan's  heart  good  to  see  it.  Instead  of  a  lonely  and 
ragged  man,  with  a  huge  burthen  on  his  back,  plod- 
ding along  sorrowfully  on  foot,  while  the  whole  city 
hooted  after  him,  here  were  parties  of  the  first  gen- 
try and  most  respectable  people  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, setting  forth  towards  the  Celestial  City,  as 
cheerfully  as  if  the  pilgrimage  were  merely  a  sum- 
mer tour.  Among  the  gentlemen  were  characters 
of  deserved  eminence,  magistrates,  politicians,  and 
men  of  wealth,  by  whose  example  religion  could  not 
but  be  greatly  recommended  to  their  meaner  bre- 
thren. In  the  ladies'  apartment,  too,  I  rejoiced  to 
distinguish  some  of  those  flowers  of  fashionable  so- 
ciety, who  are  so  well  fitted  to  adorn  the  most 
elevated  circles  of  the  Celestial  City.  There  was 
much  pleasant  conversation  about  the  news  of  the 
day,  topics  of  business,  politics,  or  the  lighter  mat- 
ters of  amusement;  while  religion,  though  indubit- 
ably the  main  thing  at  heart,  was  thrown  tastefully 
into  the  back-ground.  Even  an  infidel  would  have 
heard  little  or  nothing  to  shock  his  sensibility. 

One  great  convenience  of  the  new  method  of  going 
on  pilgrimage,  I  must  not  forget  to  mention.  Our 
enormous  burthens,  instead  of  being  carried  on  our 
shoulders,  as  had  been  the  custom  of  old, were  all  snug- 
ly deposited  in  the  baggage-car,  and,  as  I  was  assured, 
would  be  delivered  to  their  respective  owners  at  the 


120 


VOlCEb   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


journey's  enJ.  Another  thing  likewise,  the  benevo- 
lent reader  will  be  delighted  to  understand.  It  may 
be  remembered  that  there  was  an  ancient  feud  be- 
tween Prince  Beelzebub  and  the  keeper  of  the 
Wicket-Gate,  and  that  the  adherents  of  the  former 
distinguished  personage  were  accustomed  to  shoot 
deadly  arrows  at  honest  pilgrims,  while  knocking  at 
the  door.  This  dispute,  much  to  the  credit  as  well 
of  the  illustrious  potentate  above-mentioned,  as  of 
the  worthy  and  enlightened  Directors  of  the  rail- 
road, has  been  pacifically  arranged,  on  the  principle 
of  mutual  compromise.  The  Prince's  subjects  are 
now  pretty  numerously  employed  about  the  Station- 
house,  some  in  taking  care  of  the  baggage,  others  in 
collecting  fuel,  feeding  the  engines,  and  such  conge- 
nial occupations  ;  and  I  can  conscientiously  affirm, 
that  persons  more  attentive  to  their  business,  more 
willing  to  accommodate,  or  more  generally  agreeable 
to  the  passengers,  are  not  to  be  found  on  any  railroad, 
every  good  heart  must  surely  exult  at  so  satisfactory 
an  arrangement  of  an  immemorial  difficulty. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Great-heart  ?"  inquired  I.  "  Be- 
yond a  doubt,  the  Directors  have  engaged  that  famous 
old  champion  to  be  chief  conductor  on  the  railroad  ?" 

•  '  Why,  no,"  said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  with  adry 
cough.  "He  was  offijred  the  situation  of  brake- 
man  ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  our  friend  Great- 
heart  has  grown  preposterously  stiff  and  narrow,  in 
his  old  age.  He  has  so  often  guided  pilgrims  over 
the  road,  on  foot,  that  he  considers  it  a  sin  to  travel 
in  any  other  fashion.  Besides,  the  old  fellow  had 
entered  so  heartily  into  the  ancient  feud  with  Prince 
Beelzebub,  that  he  would  have  been  perpetually  at 
blows  or  ill  language  with  some  of  the  prince's  sub- 
jects, and  thus  have  embroiled  us  anew.  So,  on  the 
whole,  we  were  not  sorry  when  honest  Great-heart 
want  off  to  the  Celestial  City  in  a  huff,  and  left  us 
at  liberty  to  choose  a  more  suitable  and  accommo- 
dating man.  Yonder  comes  the  conductor  of  the 
train.     You  w-ill  probably  recognise  him  at  once." 

The  engine  at  this  moment  took  its  station  in 
advance  of  the  cars,  looking,  I  must  confess,  much 
more  like  a  sort  of  mechanical  demon  that  would 
hurry  us  to  the  infernal  regions,  than  a  laudable  con- 
trivance for  smoothing  our  way  to  the  Celestial 
City.  On  its  top  sat  a  personage  almost  enveloped 
in  smoke  and  flame,  which — not  to  startle  the  reader 
— appeared  to  gush  from  his  own  mouth  and  stomach, 
as  well  as  from  the  engine's  brazen  abdomen. 

"  Do  my  eyes  deceive  me  ?"  cried  I.  "  What  on 
earth  is  this  !  A  living  creature? — if  so,  he  is  own 
brother  to  the  engine  that  he  rides  upon  !" 

"  Poh,  poh,  you  are  obtuse!"  said  Mr.  Smooth-it- 
away,  with  a  hearty  laugh.  "  Don't  you  know  Apol- 
lyon,  Christian's  old  enemy,  with  whom  he  fought 
so  fierce  a  battle  in  the  valley  of  Humiliation  ? 
He  was  the  very  fellow  to  manage  the  engine;  and 
so  we  have  reconciled  him  to  the  custom  of  going  on 
pilgrimage,  and  engaged  him  as  chief  conductor." 


«'  Bravo,  bravo!"  exclaimed  I,  with  irrepressible 
enthusiasm,  "  this  shows  the  liberality  of  the  age  ; 
this  proves,  if  anything  can,  that  all  musty  preju- 
dices are  in  a  fair  way  to  be  obliterated.  And  how 
will  Christian  rejoice  to  hear  of  this  happy  trans- 
formation of  his  old  antagonist!  I  promise  myself 
great  pleasure  in  informing  him  of  it,  when  we  reach 
the  Celestial  City." 

The  passengers  being  all  comfortably  seated,  we 
now  rattled  away  merrily,  accomplishing  a  greater 
distance  in  ten  minutes  than  Christian  probably 
trudged  over  in  a  day.  It  was  laughable  while  we 
glanced  along,  as  it  were,  at  the  tail  of  a  thunder- 
bolt, to  observe  two  dusty  foot-travellers,  in  the  old 
pilgrim  guise,  with  cockle  shell  and  staff,  their  mys- 
tic rolls  of  parchment  in  their  hands,  and  their  in- 
tolerable burthens  on  their  backs.  The  prepos- 
terous obstinacy  of  these  honest  people,  in  persist- 
ing to  groan  and  stumble  along  the  difficult  pathway, 
rather  than  take  advantage  of  modern  improvements, 
excited  great  mirth  among  our  wiser  brotherhood. 
We  greeted  the  two  pilgrims  with  many  pleasant 
gibes  and  a  roar  of  laughter ;  whereupon,  they  gazed 
at  us  with  such  woeful  and  absurdly  compassionate 
visages,  that  our  merriment  grew  ten-fold  more 
obstreperous.  Apollyon,  also,  entered  heartily  into 
the  fun,  and  contrived  to  flirt  the  smoke  and  flame 
of  the  engine,  or  of  his  own  breath,  into  their  faces, 
and  envelope  them  in  an  atmosphere  of  scalding 
stream.  These  little  practical  jokes  amused  us 
mightily,  and  doubtless  afforded  the  pilgrims  the 
gratification  of  considering  themselves  martyrs. 

At  some  distance  from  the  railroad,  Mr.  Smooth- 
it-away  pointed  to  a  large,  antique  edifice,  which, 
he  observed,  was  a  tavern  of  long  standing,  and  had 
formerly  been  a  noted  stopping-place  for  pilgrims. 
In  Bunyan's  road-book  it  is  mentioned  as  the  Inter- 
preter's House. 

"  I  have  long  had  a  curiosity  to  visit  that  old 
mansion,"  remarked  I. 

"  It  is  not  one  of  our  stations,  as  you  perceive," 
said  my  companion.  "The  keeper  was  violently 
opposed  to  the  railroad  ;  and  well  he  might  be,  as 
the  track  left  his  house  of  entertainment  on  one  side, 
and  thus  was  pretty  certain  to  deprive  him  of  all 
his  reputable  customers.  But  the  footpath  still 
passes  his  door  ;  and  the  old  gentleman  now  and 
then  receives  a  call  from  some  simple  traveller,  and 
entertains  him  with  fare  as  old-fashioned  as  himself." 

Before  our  talk  on  this  subject  came  to  a  conclu- 
sion, we  were  rushing  by  the  place  where  Chris- 
tian's burthen  fell  from  his  shoulders,  at  the  sight  of 
the  Cross.  This  served  as  a  theme  for  I\Ir.  Smooth-it- 
away,  Mr.  Live-for-the-world,  Mr.  Hide-sin-in-the- 
heart,  Mr.  Scaly-conscience,  and  a  knot  of  gentle- 
men from  the  town  of  Shun-repentance,  to  descant 
upon  the  inestimable  advantages  resulting  from  the 
safety  of  our  baggage.  Myself,  and  all  the  passen- 
gers,  indeed,   joined  with  great   unanimity  in  this 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


121 


view  of  the  matter;  for  our  burthens  were  rich  in 
many  things  esteemed  precious  throughout  the  world; 
and,  es[)ecially,  we  each  of  us  jwssessed  a  great  va- 
riety of  favorite  Habits,  wliich  we  trusted  would  not 
be  out  of  fashion,  even  in  the  polite  circles  of  the 
Celestial  City.  It  would  have  been  a  sad  spectacle 
to  see  such  an  assortment  of  valuable  articles  tum- 
bling into  the  sepulchre.  Thus  pleasantly  conversing 
on  the  favorable  circumstances  of  our  position,  as 
compared  with  those  of  past  pilgrims,  and  of  narrow- 
minded  ones  at  the  present  day,  we  soon  found  our- 
selves at  the  foot  of  the  Hill  Difficulty.  Through 
the  very  heart  of  this  rocky  mountain  a  tunnel  has 
been  constructed,  of  most  admirable  architecture, 
with  a  lofty  arch  and  spacious  double-track  ;  so  that, 
unless  the  earth  and  rocks  should  chance  to  crumble 
down,  it  will  remain  an  eternal  monument  of  the 
builder's  skill  and  enterprise.  It  is  a  great  though  in- 
cidental advantage,  that  the  materials  from  the  heart 
of  the  Hill  Difficulty  have  been  employed  in  filling 
up  the  Valley  of  Humiliation  ;  thus  obviating  the 
necessity  of  descending  into  that  disagreeable  and 
unwholesome  hollow. 

"  This  is  a  wonderful  improvement,  indeed," 
said  I.  "  Yet  I  should  have  been  glad  of  an  oppor- 
tunity to  visit  the  Palace  Beautiful,  and  be  introduced 
to  the  charming  young  ladies — Miss  Prudence,  Miss 
Piety,  Miss  Charity  and  the  rest — who  have  the 
kindness  to  entertain  pilgrims  there." 

"  Young  ladies  !''  cried  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  as 
soon  as  he  could  speak  for  laughing.  "  And  charming 
young  ladies  !  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  they  are  old 
maids,  every  soul  of  them — prim,  starched,  dry,  and 
angular — and  not  one  of  them,  I  will  venture  to  say, 
has  altered  so  much  as  the  fashion  of  her  gown, 
since  the  days  of  Christian's  pilgrimage." 

"  Ah,  well,''  said  I,  much  comforted,  "  then  I 
can  very  readily  dispense  with  their  acquaintance." 

The  respectable  Apollyon  was  now  putting  on 
the  steam  at  a  prodigious  rate  ;  anxious,  perhaps,  to 
get  rid  of  the  unpleasant  reminiscences  connected 
with  the  spot  where  he  had  so  disastrously  encoun- 
tered Christian.  Consulting  Mr.  Bunyan's  road-book, 
I  perceived  that  we  must  now  be  within  a  few  miles 
of  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death ;  into  which 
doleful  region,  at  our  present  speed,  we  should  plunge 
much  sooner  than  seemed  at  all  desirable.  In  truth, 
I  expected  nothing  better  than  to  find  myself  in  the 
ditch  on  one  side,  or  the  quag  on  the  other.  But, 
on  communicating  my  apprehensions  to  Mr.  Smooth- 
it-away,  he  assured  me  that  the  difficulties  of  this  pas- 
sage, even  in  its  worst  condition,  had  been  vastly 
exaggerated,  and  that,  in  its  present  state  of  improve- 
ment, I  might  consider  myself  as  safe  as  on  any  rail- 
road in  Christendom. 

Even  while  we  were  speaking,  the  train  shot  into 
the  entrance  of  this  dreaded  Valley.  Though  I 
plead  guilty  to  some  foolish  palpitations  of  the  heart, 
during  our  headlong  rush  over  the  causeway  here 


constructed,  yet  it  were  unjust  to  withhold  the  high 
est  encomiums  on  the  boldness  of  its  original  con- 
ception, and  the  ingenuity  of  those  who  executed  it. 
It  was  gratifying,  likewise,  to  observe  how  much 
care  had  been  taken  to  dispel  the  everlasting  gloom, 
and  supply  the  defect  of  cheerful  sunshine  ;  not  a 
ray  of  which  has  ever  penetrated  among  these  awful 
shadows.  For  this  purpose,  the  inflammable  gas, 
which  exudes  plentifully  from  the  soil,  is  collected 
by  means  of  pipes,  and  thence  communicated  to  a 
quadruple  row  of  lamps,  along  the  whole  extent  of 
the  passage.  Thus  a  radiance  has  been  created, 
even  out  of  the  fiery  and  sulphurous  curse  that  rests 
for  ever  upon  the  Valley;  a  radiance  hurtful,  how- 
ever, to  the  eyes,  and  somewhat  bewildering,  as  I 
discovered  by  the  changes  which  it  wrought  in  the 
visages  of  my  companions.  In  this  respect,  as  com- 
pared with  natural  daylight,  there  is  the  same  differ- 
ence as  between  truth  and  falsehood ;  but  if  the 
reader  have  ever  travelled  through  the  dark  Valley, 
he  will  have  learned  to  be  thankful  for  any  light 
that  he  could  get ;  if  not  from  the  sky  above,  then 
from  the  blasted  soil  beneath.  Such  was  the  red 
brilliancy  of  these  lamps,  that  they  appeared  to  build 
walls  of  fire  on  both  sides  of  the  track,  between 
which  we  held  our  course  at  lightning  speed,  while 
a  reverberating  thunder  filled  the  Valley  with  its 
echoes.  Had  the  engine  run  off  the  track — a  catas- 
trophe, it  is  whispered,  by  no  means  unprecedented — 
the  bottomless  pit,  if  there  be  any  such  place,  would 
undoubtedly  have  received  us.  Just  as  some  dismal 
fooleries  of  this  nature  had  made  my  heart  quake, 
there  came  a  tremendous  shriek,  careering  along  the 
Valley  as  if  a  thousand  devils  had  burst  their  lungs 
to  utter  it,  but  which  proved  to  be  merely  the  whis- 
tle of  the  engine,  on  arriving  at  a  stopping-place. 

The  spot,  where  we  had  now  paused,  is  the  same 
that  our  friend  Bunyan — a  truthful  man,  but  infect- 
ed with  many  fantastic  notions — has  designated,  in 
terms  plainer  than  I  like  to  repeat,  as  the  mouth  of 
the  infernal  region.  This,  however,  must  be  a  mis- 
take ;  inasmuch  as  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  while  we 
remained  in  the  smoky  and  lurid  cavern,  took  occa- 
sion to  prove  that  Tophet  has  not  even  a  metapho- 
rical existence.  The  place,  he  assured  us,  is  no 
other  than  the  crater  of  a  half-extinct  volcano,  in 
which  the  Directors  had  caused  forges  to  be  set  up, 
for  the  manufacture  of  railroad  iron.  Hence,  also, 
is  obtained  a  plentiful  supply  of  fuel  for  the  use  of 
the  engines.  Whoever  had  gazed  into  the  dismal 
obscurity  of  the  broad  cavern-mouth,  whence  ever 
and  anon  darted  huge  tongues  of  dusky  flame,— and 
had  seen  the  strange,  half-shaped  monsters,  and 
visions  effaces  horribly  grotesque,  into  which  the 
smoke  seemed  to  wreathe  itself, —  and  had  heard  the 
awful  murmurs,  and  shrieks,  and  deep  shuddering 
whispers  of  the  blast,  sometimes  forming  itself  into 
words  almost  articulate, — would  have  seized  upon 
Mr.  Smooth-it-away's  comfortable  explanation,  as 
16 


122 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


greedily  as  we  did.  The  inhabitants  of  the  cavern, 
moreover,  were  unlovely  personages,  dark,  smoke- 
begrimed,  generally  deformed,  with  mis-shapen  feet, 
and  a  glow  of  dusky  redness  in  their  eyes ;  as  if  their 
hearts  had  caught  fire,  and  were  blazing  out  of  the 
upper  windows.  It  struck  me  as  a  peculiarity,  that 
the  laborers  at  the  forge,  and  those  who  brought 
fuel  to  the  engine,  when  they  began  to  draw  short 
breath,  positively  emitted  smoke  from  their  mouth 
and  nostrils. 

Among  the  idlers  about  the  train,  most  of  whom 
were  pulfing  cigars  which  they  had  lighted  at  the 
flame  of  the  crater,  I  was  perplexed  to  notice  seve- 
ral who,  to  my  certain  knowlekge,  had  heretofore 
set  forth  by  railroad  for  the  Celestial  City.  They 
looked  dark,  wild,  and  smoky,  with  a  singular  re- 
semblance, indeed,  to  the  native  inhabitants  ;  like 
whom,  also,  they  had  a  disagreeable  propensity  to 
ill-natured  gibes  and  sneers,  the  habit  of  which  had 
wrought  a  settled  contortion  of  their  visages.  Hav- 
ing been  on  speaking  terms  with  one  of  these  per- 
sons— an  indolent,  good-for-nothing  fellow,  who 
went  by  the  name  of  Take-it-easy — I  called  to  him, 
and  inquired  what  was  his  business  there. 

"  Did  you  not  start,"  said  T,  "  lor  the  Celestial 
City?" 

"  That's  a  fact,"  said  Mr.  Take-it-easy,  carelessly 
some  puffing  smoke  into  my  eyes.  "  But  I  heard  such 
bad  accounts,  that  I  never  took  pains  to  climb  the 
hill,  on  which  the  city  stands.  No  business  doing — 
110  fun  going  on — nothing  to  drink,  and  no  smoking 
allowed — and  a  thrumming  of  church-music  from 
morning  till  night !  I  would  not  stay  in  such  a  place, 
if  they  offered  me  house-room  and  living  free." 

"But,  mygood  Mr.  Take-it-easy,"  cried  I,  "why 
take  up  your  residence  here,  of  all  places  in  the 
world  1" 

"Oh,"  said  the  loafer,  with  a  grin,  "it  is  very 
warm  hereabouts,  and  I  meet  with  plenty  of  old 
acquaintances,  and  altogether  the  place  suits  me.  I 
hope  to  see  you  back  again,  some  day  soon.  A  plea- 
sant journey  to  you  !" 

While  he  wa-*  speaking,  the  bell  of  the  engine 
rang,  and  we  daslied  away,  after  dropping  a  few 
passengers,  but  receiving  no  new  ones  Rattling 
onwarcl  through  the  Valley,  we  were  dazzled  with 
the  fiercely  gleaming  gas-lamps,  as  before.  But 
sometimes,  in  the  dark  of  intense  brightness,  grim 
faces,  that  bore  the  aspect  and  expression  of  indivi- 
dual sins,  or  evil  passions,  seemed  to  thrust  them- 
selves through  the  veil  of  light,  glaring  upon  us,  and 
stretching  forth  a  great  dusky  hand,  as  if  to  impede 
our  progress.  I  almost  thougiit,  that  they  were  my 
own  sins  that  appalled  me  there.  These  were  freaks 
of  imagination— nothing  more,  certainly, —  mere  de- 
lusions, which  I  ought  to  bo  heartily  ashamed  of — 
but,  all  through  the  Dark  Valley.  I  was  tormented, 
and  pestered,  and  dolefully  bewildered,  with  the 
same  kinil  of  waking  dreams.      Tlic  mephitic  gases 


of  that  region  intoxicate  the  brain.  As  the  light  of 
natural  day,  however,  began  to  struggle  with  the 
glow  of  the  lanterns,  these  vain  imaginations  lost 
their  vividness,  and  finally  vanished  with  the  first 
ray  of  sunshine  that  greeted  our  escape  from  the 
Valley  of  the  Shallow  of  Death.  Ere  we  had  gone  a 
mile  beyond  it,  I  could  well  nigh  have  taken  my 
oath,  that  this  whole  gloomy  passage  was  a  dream. 

At  the  end  of  the  Valley,  as  John  Bunyan  men- 
tions, is  a  cavern,  where,  in  his  days,  dwelt  two 
cruel  giants.  Pope  and  Pagan,  who  had  strewn  the 
ground  about  their  residence  with  the  bones  of  slaugh- 
tered pilgrims.  These  vile  old  troglodytes  are  no 
longer  there  ;  but  into  their  deserted  cave  another 
terrible  giant  has  thrust  himself,  and  makes  it  his 
business  to  seize  upon  honest  travellers,  and  fat  them 
for  his  table  with  plentiful  meals  of  smoke,  mist, 
moonshine,  raw  potatoes.,  and  saw-dust.  He  is  a 
German  by  birth,  and  is  called  Giant  Transcendent- 
alist;  but  as  to  his  form,  his  features,  his  substance, 
and  his  nature  generally,  it  is  the  chief  peculiarity 
of  this  huge  miscreant,  that  neither  he  for  himself, 
nor  anybody  for  him,  has  ever  been  able  to  describe 
them.  As  we  rushed  by  the  cavern's  mouth,  we 
caught  a  hasty  glimpse  of  him,  looking  somewhat 
like  an  ill-proportioned  figure,  but  considerably  more 
like  a  heap  of  fog  and  duskiness.  He  shouted  after 
us,  but  in  so  strange  a  phraseology,  that  we  knew 
not  what  he  meant,  nor  whether  to  be  encouraged  or 
affiighted. 

It  was  late  in  the  day,  when  the  train  thundered 
into  the  ancient  city  of  Vanity,  where  Vanity  Fair 
is  still  at  the  height  of  prosperity  and  exhibits  an 
epitome  of  whatever  is  brilliant,  gay,  and  fa.scinat- 
ing,  beneath  the  sun.  As  I  purposed  to  make  a  con- 
siderable stay  here,  it  gratified  me  to  learn  that 
there  is  no  longer  the  want  of  harmony  between 
the  townspeople  and  pilgrims,  which  impelled  the 
former  to  such  lamentably  mistaken  measures  as  the 
persecution  of  Christian,  and  the  fiery  martyrdom 
of  Faithful.  On  the  contrary,  as  the  new  railroad 
brings  with  it  great  trade  and  a  constant  influx  of 
strangers,  the  lord  of  Vanity  Fair  is  its  chief  patron, 
and  the  capitalists  of  the  city  are  among  the  largest 
stockholders.  Many  passengers  stop  to  take  their 
pleasure  or  make  their  profit  in  the  Fair,  instead  of 
going  onward  to  the  Celestial  City.  Indeed,  such 
are  the  charms  of  the  place,  that  people  often  affirm 
it  to  be  the  true  and  only  heaven ;  stoutly  contend- 
ing that  there  is  no  other,  that  those  who  seek  fur- 
ther are  mere  dreamers,  and  that,  if  the  fabled  bright- 
ness of  the  Celestial  City  lay  but  a  bare  mile  beyond 
the  gates  of  Vanity,  they  would  not  be  fools  enough 
to  go  thither.  Without  subscribing  to  these,  per- 
haps, exaggerated  encomiums,  I  can  truly  say,  that 
my  abode  in  the  city  was  mainly  agreeable,  and  my 
intercourse  with  the  inhabitants  productive  of  much 
amusement  and  instruction. 

Being  naturally  of  a  serious  turn,  my  attention 


V  O  I  C  E  S   O  F    r  H  !•:  T  R  U  E  -HEART  E  1) 


123 


was  directed  to  the  solid  advantages  derivable  from 
a   residence   here,    rather  than  to  the   effervescent 
pleasures,  which  are  the  grand  object  with  too  many 
visitants.     The  Cliristian  reader,  if  he  have  had  no 
accounts  of  the  city  later  than  Bunyan's  time,  will 
be  surprised  to  hear  that  almost  every  street  has  its 
church,  and  that  the  reverend  clergy  are  nowhere 
held  in  higher  respect  than  at  Vanity  Fair.      And 
well  do  they  deserve  such  honorable  estimation  ;  for 
the  maxims  of  wisdom  and  virtue  which  fall  from 
their  lips,  come  from  as  deep  a  spiritual  source,  and 
tend  to  as  lofty  a  religious  aim,  as  those  of  the  sagest 
philosophers  of  old.      In  justification  to  this  high 
praise,  I  need  only  mention  the  names  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Shallow-deep  ;  the  Rev.  Mr  Stumble-at-Trnth; 
that  fine  old  clerical  character,  the  Rev.  Mr.  This- 
to-day,  who  expects  shortly  to  resign  his  pulpit  to 
the   Rev.  Mr.  That-to-morrow ;    together  with  the 
Rev.  Mr.   Bewilderment ;    the  Rev.  Mr.  Clog-the- 
spirit;  and,  last  and  greatest,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wind-of- 
doctrine.     The  labors  of  these  eminent  divines  are 
aided  by  those  of  innumerable  lecturers,  who  diffuse 
such  a  various  profundity,  in  all  subjects  of  human 
or  celestial  science,  that  any  man  may  acquire  an 
omnigenous  erudition,  without  the  trouble  of  even 
learning  to  read.    Thus  literature  isetherealized  by 
assuming    for    its  medium   the  human   voice ;    and 
knowledge,  depositing  all  its  heavier  particles — ex- 
cept,  doubtless,  its  gold — becomes  exhaled  into  a 
sound,  which  forthwith  steals  into  the  ever-open  ear 
of  the  community.     These  ingenious  methods  con- 
stitute a  sort  of  machinery,  by  which  thought  and 
study  are  done  to  every  person's  hand,  without  his 
putting  himself  to  the  slightest  inconvenience  in  the 
matter.      There  is  another  species  of  machine  for 
the  wholesale  manufacture  of  individual   morality. 
This  excellent  result  is  effected  by  societies  for  all 
manner  of  virtuous  purposes;  with  which  a  man  has 
merely  to  connect  himself,  throwing,  as  it  were,  his 
quota  of  virtue   into  the  common    stock ;    and  the 
president  and  directors  will  take  care  that  the  aggre- 
gate amount  be  well  applied.     All  these,  and  other 
wonderful  improvements  in  ethics,  religion,  and  lite- 
rature, being  made  plain  to  my  comprehension  by 
the  ingenious  Mr.  Smoothit-away,  inspired  me  with 
a  vast  admiration  of  Vanity  Fair. 

It  would  fill  a  volume  in  an  age  of  pamphlets, 
were  I  to  record  all  my  observations  in  this  great 
capital  of  human  business  and  pleasure.  There  was 
an  unlimited  range  of  society — the  powerful,  the 
wise,  the  witty,  and  the  famous  in  every  walk  of 
life — princes,  presidents,  poets,  generals,  artists, 
actors,  and  philanthropists,  all  making  their  own 
market  at  the  Fair,  and  deeming  no  price  too  e.xor- 
bitant  for  such  commodities  as  hit  their  fancy.  It 
was  well  worth  one's  while,  even  if  he  had  no  idea 
of  buying  or  selling,  to  loiter  through  the  bazaars, 
and  observe  the  various  sorts  of  traffic  that  were 
going  forward. 


Some  of  the  purchasers,  I  thought,  made  very  fool- 
ish bargains.     For  instance,  a  young  man,  having 
inherited  a  splendid  fortune,  laid  out  a  considerable 
portion  of  it  in  tiie  purchase  of  diseases,  and  finally 
spent  all  the  rest  for  a  heavy  lot  of  repentance  and  a 
suit  of  rags.     A  very  pretty  girl  bartered  a  heart  as 
clear  as  crystal,  and  which  seemed   her  most  valua- 
ble possession,  for  another  jewel  of  the  same  kind, 
but  so  worn  and  defaced  as  to  be  utterly  worthless. 
In  one   shop,  there  were  a  great   many  crowns  of 
laurel  and  myrtle,  which  soldiers,  authors,  states- 
men, and  various  other  people,   pressed  eagerly  to 
buy;   some  purchased    these  paltry   wreaths   with 
their  lives;  others  by  a  toilsome  servitude  of  years  ; 
and  many  sacrificed  whatever  was   most  valuable, 
yet  finally  slunk  away  without  the  crown.     There 
was  a  sort  of  stock   or  scrip,  called    Conscience, 
which  seemed   to  be  in  great  demand,   and  would 
purchase  almost  anything.      Indeed,    few  rich  com- 
modities were  to  be  obtained  without  paying  a  heavy 
sum  in  this  particular   stock,   as  a  man's  business 
was  seldom  very  lucrative,  unless  he  knew  precisely 
when  and  how  to  throw  his  hoard  of  Conscience  into 
the  market.     Yet  as  this  stock  was  the  only  thing 
of  permanent  value,  whoever  parted  with  it  was 
sure  to  find  himself  a  loser,  in  the  long  run.     Seve- 
ral of  the   speculations   were  of  a  questionable  cha- 
racter.      Occasionally,  a  member  of   Congress  re- 
cruited his  pocket  by  the  sale  of  his  constituents ; 
and  I  was  assured  that  public  officers  have  often  sold 
their  country  at  very  moderate  prices.     Thousands 
sold  their  happiness  for  a  whim.    Gilded  chains  were 
in  great  demand,   and  purchased   with  almost  any 
sacrifice.     In  truth,  those  who  desired,  according  to 
the  old  adage,  to  sell  anything  valuable  for  a  song, 
might  find   customers  all  over  the  Fair  :  and  there 
were  innumerable  messes  of  pottage,  piping  hot,  for 
such  as   chose  to  buy  them  with  their  birth-rights, 
A  few  articles,  however,  could  not  be  found  genuine 
at  Vanity  Fair.     If  a  customer  wished  to  renew  his 
stock  of  youth,  the  dealers  offered  him  a  set  of  false 
teeth  and  an  auburn  wig ;    if  he  demanded  peace  of 
mind,  they  recommended  opium  or  a  brandy-bottle. 
Tracts  of  land  and  golden  mansions,  situate  in  the 
Celestial  City,  were  often  exchanged,  at  very  disad- 
vantageous rates,  for  a  few  years'  lease   of  small, 
dismal,    inconvenient   tenements    in    Vanity    Fair. 
Prince  Beelzebub  himself  took  great  interest  in  this 
sort  of  traffic,  and  sometimes  condescended  to  med- 
dle with  smaller  matters.     I  once  had  the  pleasure 
to  see  him  bargaining  with  a  miser  for    his  soul, 
which,   after  much  ingenious   skirmishing  on  both 
sides,    his  Highness  succeeded  in  obtaining  at  about 
the  value  of  sixpence.     The  prince  remarked,  with 
a  smile,  that  he  was  a  loser  by  the  bargain. 

Day  after  day,  as  I  walked  the  streets  of  Vanity, 
my  manner?  and  deportment  became  more  and  more 
like  those  of  the  inhabitants.  The  place  began  to 
seem  like  home;  the  idea  of  pursuing  my  travels  to 


124 


VOICES    OF     THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


the  Celestial  City  was  almost  obliterated  from  my 
mind.  I  was  reminded  of  it,  however,  by  the  sight 
of  the  same  pair  of  simple  pilgrims  at  whom  we  had 
laughed  so  heartily,  when  Apollyon  puffed  smoke 
and  steam  into  their  faces,  at  the  commencement  of 
our  journey.  Tiiere  they  stood  amid  the  densest 
bustle  of  Vanity — the  dealers  offering  them  their 
purple,  and  fine  linen,  and  jewels ;  the  man  of  wit 
and  humor  gibing  at  them;  a  pair  of  buxon  ladies 
ogling  them  askance;  while  the  benevolent  Mr. 
Smooth-it-away  whispered  some  of  his  wisdom  at 
their  elbows,  andjwinted  to  a  newly-erected  temple, 
but  there  were  these  worthy  simpletons,  making 
the  scene  look  wild  and  monstrous,  merely  by  tlieir 
sturdy  repudiation  of  all  parts  in  its  business  or 
pleasures. 

One  of  them — liis  name  was  Stick-tothe-right — 
perceived  in  my  face,  I  suppose,  a  species  of  sym- 
pathy and  almost  admiration,  which,  to  my  own 
great  surprise,  I  could  not  help  feeling  for  this  prag- 
matic couple.     It  prompted  him  to  address  me. 

"  Sir,"  inquired  he,  with  a  sad,  yet  mild  and  kind- 
ly voice,  "  do  you  call  yourself  a  pilgrim  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  my  right  to  that  appellation 
is  indubitable.  I  am  merely  a  sojourner  here  in 
Vanity  Fair,  being  bound  to  the  Celestial  City  by 
the  new  railroad." 

"  Alas,  friend,"  rejoined  Mr.  Stick  to-the-right, 
"  I  do  assure  you,  and  beseech  you  to  receive  the 
truth  of  my  words,  that  that  whole  concern  is  a 
bubble.  You  may  travel  on  it  all  your  life-time, 
were  you  to  live  thousands  of  years,  and  yet  never 
get  beyond  the  limits  of  Vanity  Fair  !  Yea  ;  though 
you  should  deem  yourself  entering  the  gates  of  the 
Blessed  City,  it  will  be  notliing  but  a  miserable  de- 
lusion." 

"  The  Lord  of  the  Celestial  Citv,"  began  the 
other  pilgrim,  whose  namewdsMr.  Go-the-old-way, 
"  has  refused,  and  will  ever  refuse,  to  grant  an  act 
of  incorporation  for.  this  railroad;  and  unless  that  be 
obtained,  no  passenger  can  ever  hope  to  enter  his 
dominions.  Wherefore,  every  man  who  buys  a  ticket, 
must  lay  his  account  with  losing  the  purchase- 
money— which  is  the  value  of  his  own  soul." 

"Poh,  nonsense  !"  said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  taking 
my  arm  and  leading  me  off,  "  these  fellows  ought  to 
be  indicted  for  a  libel.  If  the  law  stood  as  it  once 
did  in  Vanity  Fair,  we  should  see  them  grinning 
through  the  iron  bars  of  the  prison  window." 

This  incident  made  a  considerable  impression  on 
my  mind,  and  contributed  with  other  circumstances 
to  indispose  me  to  a  permanent  residence  in  the  city 
of  Vanity ;  although,  of  course,  I  was  not  simple 
enough  to  give  up  my  original  plan  of  gliding  along 
easily  and  commodiously  by  railroad.  Still  I  grew 
anxious  to  be  gone.  There  was  one  si  range  thing 
that  troubled  me  ;  amid  the  occujjations  or  amuse- 
ments of  the  fair,  nothing  was  more  common  than 
for  a  p-rson — wlntlier  at  a  feast,  tlicatre.  or  ctimili. 


or  trafficking  for  wealth  and  honors,  or  whatever  he 
might  be  doing,  and  however  unseasonable  the  in- 
terruption—suddenly  to  vanish  like  a  soap-bubble, 
and  be  never  more  seen  of  his  fellows  ;  and  so  accus- 
tomed were  the  latter  to  such  little  accidents,  that 
they  went  on  with  their  business,  as  quietly  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.   But  it  was  otherwise  with  me. 

Finally,  after  a  pretty  long  residence  at  the  Fair, 
I  resumed  my  journey  towards  the  Celestiftl  Cityj 
still  with  Mr.  Smooth-it-away  at  my  side.  At  a 
short  distance  beyond  the  suburbs  of  Vanity,  we 
passed  the  ancient  silver  mine,  of  which  Demas  was 
the  first  discoverer,  and  which  is  now  wrought  to 
great  advantage,  supplying  nearly  all  the  coined  cur- 
rency of  the  world.  A  little  further  onward  was 
the  spot  where  Lot's  wife  had  stood  for  ages,  under 
the  semblance  of  a  pillar  of  salt.  Curious  travellers 
have  carried  it  away  piecemeal.  Had  all  regrets 
been  punished  as  rigorously  as  this  poor  dame's  were, 
my  yearning  for  the  relinquished  delights  of  Vanity 
Fair  might  have  produced  a  similar  change  in  my 
own  corporeal  substance,  and  left  me  a  warning  to 
future  pilgrims. 

The  next  remarkable  object  was  a  large  edifice, 
constructed  of  moss-grown  stone,  but  in  a  modern 
and  airy  style  of  architecture.  The  engine  came  to 
a  pause  in  its  vicinity  with  the  usual  tremendous 
sliriek. 

"  This  was  formerly  the  castle  of  the  redoubted 
giant  Despair,"  observed  IVIr.  Smooth-it-away;  "but, 
since  his  death,  Mr.  Flimsy-faith  has  repaired  it, 
and  now  keeps  an  excellent  house  of  entertainment 
here.     It  is  one  of  our  stopping  places." 

"  It  seems  but  slightly  put  together,"  remarked  I, 
looking  at  the  frail,  yet  ponderous  walls.  "  I  do 
not  envy  Mr.  Flimsy-faith  his  habitation.  Some 
day  it  will  thunder  down  upon  the  heads  of  the  oc- 
cupants." 

"  We  shall  escape,  at  all  events,"  said  Mr.  Smooth- 
it-away;  "for  Apollyon  is  putting  on  the  steam 
again." 

The  road  now  plunged  into  a  gorge  of  the  Delect- 
able Mountains,  and  traversed  the  field  where,  in 
former  ages,  the  blind  men  wandered  and  stumbled 
among  the  tombs.  One  of  these  ancient  tomb-stones 
had  been  thrust  across  the  track,  by  some  malicious 
person,  and  gave  the  train  of  cars  a  terrible  jolt. 
Far  up  the  rugged  side  of  a  mountain,  I  perceived  a 
rusty  iron  door,  half  overgrown  with  bushes  and 
creeping  plants,  but  with  smoke  issuing  from  its 
crevices. 

"  Is  that,"  inquired  I,  '■  the  very  door  in  the  hill- 
side, which  the  shepherds  assured  Christian  was  a 
by-way  to  Hell  ?" 

"  That  was  a  joke  on  the  part  of  the  shepherds," 
said  Mr,  Smooth-it-away,  with  a  smile  "It  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  the  door  of  a  cavern, 
which  they  use  as  a  smoke-house  for  the  preparation 
of  mutton  linms." 


VOICES  OF  thp:  true-hearted 


125 


=*^^ 


My  recollections  of  the  journey  are  now,  for  a 
little  space,  dim  and  confused,  inasmuch  as  a  singu- 
lar drowsiness  here  overcame  me,  owing  to  the  fact 
that  we  were  passing  over  the  enchanted  ground,  the 
air  of  which  encourages  a  disposition  to  sleep.  I 
awoke,  however,  as  soon  as  we  crossed  the  borders 
of  the  pleasant  land  of  Beulah.  All  the  passengers 
were  rubhing  their  eyes,  comparing  watches,  and 
congratulating  one  another  on  the  prospect  of  arriv- 
ing so  seasonably  at  the  journey's  end.  The  sweet 
breezes  of  this  happy  clime  came  refreshingly  to  our 
nostrils!  we  beheld  the  glimmering  gush  of  silver 
fountains,  over-hung  by  trees  of  beautiful  foliage  and 
delicious  fruit,  which  were  propogated  by  grafts 
from  the  celestial  gardens.  Once,  as  we  dashed  on- 
w^ard  like  a  hurricane,  there  was  a  flutter  of  wings, 
and  the  bright  appearance  of  an  angel  in  the  air, 
speeding  forth  on  some  heavenly  mission.  The  en- 
gine now  announced  the  close  vicinity  of  the  final 
Station  House,  by  one  last  and  horrible  scream,  in 
which  there  seemed  to  be  distinguishable  every  kind 
of  wailing  and  woe,  and  bitter  fierceness  of  wrath, 
all  mixed  up  with  the  wild  laughter  of  a  devil  or  a 
madman.  Throughout  our  journey,  at  every  stop- 
ping place,  ApoUyon  had  exercised  his  ingenuity 
in  screwing  the  most  abomniable  sounds  out  of  the 
"whistle  of  the  steam  engine ;  but,  in  this  closing 
effort  he  outdid  himself,  and  created  an  infernal 
uproar,  which,  besides  disturbing  the  peaceful  inha- 
bitants of  Beulah,  must  have  sent  its  discord  even 
through  the  celestial  gates. 

While  the  horrid  clamor  was  still  ringing  in  our 
ears,  we  heard  an  exulting  strain,  as  if  a  thousand 
instruments  of  music,  with  height,  and  depth,  and 
sweetness  in  their  tones,  at  once  tender  and  trium- 
phant, were  struck  in  unison,  to  greet  the  approach 
of  some  illustrious  hero,  who  had  fought  the  good 
fight  and  won  a  glorious  victory,  and  was  come  to 
lay  aside  his  battered  arms  for  ever.  Looking  to 
ascertain  what  might  be  the  occasion  of  this  glad 
harmony,  I  perceived  on  alighting  from  the  cars, 
that  a  multitude  of  shining  ones  had  assembled  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  to  welcome  two  poor  pil- 
grims, who  were  just  emerging  from  its  depths. 
They  were  the  same  whom  ApoUyon  and  ourselves 
had  persecuted  with  taunts  and  gibes,  and  scalding 
steam,  at  the  commencement  of  our  journey — the 
same  whose  unworldly  aspect  and  impressive  words 
had  stirred  my  conscience,  amid  the  wild  revellers 
of  Vanity  Fair. 

"How  amazingly  well  those  men  have  got  on!'' 
cried  I  to  Mr.  Smooth-it-away^  "  I  wish  we  were 
secure  of  as  good  a  reception." 

"  Never  fear — never  fear!"  answered  my  friend. 
"Come — make  haste;  the  ferry-boat  will  be  off 
directly;  and  in  three  minutes  you  will  be  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river.  No  doubt  you  will  find 
\      coaches  to  carry  you  up  to  the  city  gates." 

A  steam  ferry-boat,  the  last  improvement  on  th  s 


important  route,  lay  at  the  river  sideT^m^g,  snort- 
ing, and  emitting  all  those  other  disagreeable  utter- 
ances, which  betoken  the  departure  to  I'e  immediate. 
I  hurried  on  board  with  the  rest  of  the  passengers, 
most  of  whom  were  in  great  perturbation  ;  some 
bawling  out  for  their  baggage;  some  tearing  their 
hair  and  exclaiming  that  the  boat  would  explode  or 
sink ;  some  already  pale  with  the  heaving  of  the 
stream  ;  some  gazing  affrighted  at  the  ugly  aspect  of 
the  steersman ;  and  some  still  dizzy  with  the  slum- 
berous influences  of  the  Enchanted  Ground.  Look- 
ing back  to  the  shore,  I  was  amazed  to  discern  Mr, 
Smoolh-it-away  waving  his  hand  in  token  of  fare- 
well! 

"  Don't  you  go  over  to  the  Celestial  City?"  ex- 
claimed I. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  answered  he  with  a  queer  smile,  and 
that  same  disagreeable  contortion  of  visage  which  I 
had  remarked  in  the  inhabitants  of  the  Dark  Valley, 
"  Oh.  no !"  I  have  come  thus  far  only  for  the  sake 
of  your  pleasant  company.  Good  bye!  We  shall 
meet  again." 

And  then  did  my  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Smooth-it- 
away,  laugh  outright ;  in  the  midst  of  which  cachi- 
nation,  a  smoke-wreath  issued  from  his  mouth  and 
nostrils,  while  a  twinkle  of  livid  flame  darted  out 
of  either  eye,  proving  indubitably  that  his  heart  was 
all  of  a  red  blaze.  The  impudent  fiend  !  To  deny 
the  existence  of  Tophet,  when  he  felt  its  fiery  tor- 
tures raging  within  his  breast !  I  rushed  to  the  side 
of  the  boat,  intending  to  fling  myself  on  shore.  But 
the  wheels,  as  they  began  their  revolutions,  threw 
a  dash  of  spray  over  me,  so  cold — so  deadly  cold, 
with  the  chill  that  will  never  leave  those  waters, 
until  Death  be  drowned  in  his  own  river — that,  with 
a  shiver  and  a  heart-quake,  I  awoke.  Thank  heaven, 
it  was  a  Dream  ! 


SONNET  TO  J.  M.  K. 

BY    ALFRED    TENNYSON. 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee — thou  wilt  be 

A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 

To  scare  church-harpies  from  the  master's  feast ; 

Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of  thee : 

Thou  art  no  Sabbath-drawler  of  old  saws, 

Distill'd  from  some  worm-cankered  homily  ; 

But  spurred  at  heart  with  fiercest  energy 

To  embattle  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 

With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 

The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit-drone 

Half  God's  good  Sabbath,  while  the  worn-out  clerk 

Brow-beats  his  desk  below.     Thou  from  a  throne 

Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the  dark 

Arrows  of  lightnings.     I  will  stand  and  mark. 


126 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


THE  LEVELLER. 

BY     '<   BARRY     CORNWALL." 

The  king  he  reigns  on  a  throne  of  gold, 

Fenced  round  by  his  "  power  divine"  ; 
The  baron  he  sits  in  his  castle  old, 

Drinking  his  ripe  red  wine; — 
But  below,  below,  in  his  ragged  coat, 
The  beggar  he  tuneth  a  hungry  note, 
And  the  spinner  is  bound  to  his  weary  thread, 
And  the  debtor  lies  down  with  an  aching  head. 

So  the  world  goes, 

So  the  stream  llows  ; 

Yet  there's  a  fellow,  whom  nobody  knows, 

Who  maketh  all  free. 

On  land  and  sea, 

And  forceth  the  rich  like  the  poor  to  flee. 

The  lady  lies  down  in  her  warm  white  lawn, 

And  dreams  of  her  pearled  pride  ; 
The  milk-maid  sings  to  the  wild-eyed  dawn 

Sad  songs  on  the  cold  hill-side  ; 
And  the  saint  he  leaves  (while  he  prattles  of  faith) 
Good  deeds  to  the  sinner,  as  scandal  saith. 
And  the  scholar  he  bows  to  the  face  of  brass, 
And  the  wise  man  he  worships  the  golden  ass  ! 

So  the  vvorld  goes. 

So  the  stream  flows  ; 

Yet  there's  a  fellow,  whom  no  body  knows, 

"Who  maketh  all  free, 

On  land  and  sea, 

And  forceth  the  rich  like  the  poor  to  flee. 


THE  SOLEMN  SONG  OF  A  RIGHTEOUS 
HEARTE. 

Afttr  Ihe  fashion  of  an  early  English  Poet. 

BY  WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 

There  is  a  mighty  Noyse  of  Bells 

Rushing  from  the  turret  free  ; 
A  solemn  tale  of  truth  it  tells, 

O'er  Land  and  Sea, 
How  heartes  be  breaking  fast,  and  then 

Wax  whole  againe. 

Poor  fluttering  Soule  !  why  tremble  soe, 
To  quitt  Lyfe's  fast  decaying  Tree  ; 

Time  wormes  its  core,  and  it  must  bowe 
To  Fate's  decree ; 

Its  last  branch  breakes,  but  thou  must  soare, 
For  Evermore. 

Noe  more  thy  wing  shal  touch  grosse  Earth  ; 

Far  under  shal  its  shadows  flee. 
And  all  its  sounds  of  Woe  or  Mirth 

Grow  strange  to  thee. 
Thou  wilt  not  mingle  in  its  noyse 

Nor  court  its  Joies. 


Fond  One  I  why  cling  thus  unto  Life, 
As  if  its  gaudes  were  meet  for  thee ; 

Surely  its  Follie,  Bloodshed,  Stryfe, 
Liked  never  thee  ? 

This  World  grows  madder  each  newe  dale, 
Vice  bears  such  sway. 

Couldst  thou  in  Slavish  artes  excel. 

And  crawle  upon  the  supple  knee, — 

Couldst  thou  each  Woe-vvorn  wretch  repel, — 
This  Worldes  for  Thee. 

Not  in  this  spheare  man  ownes  a  Brother  : 
Then  seek  another. 

Couldst  thou  bewraie  thy  Birthwright  soe 

As  flatter  Guilt's  prosperitye, 
And  laude  Oppressionnes  iron  blowe, — 

This  Worldes  for  Thee 
Sithence  to  this  thou  wilt  not  bend, 

Life  's  at  an  end. 

Couldst  thou  spurn  Vertue  meanly  clad, 

As  if 't  were  spotted  infamy. 
And  prayse  as  Good  what  is  most  Bad, — 

This  Worldes  for  Thee. 
Sithence  thou  canst  not  will  it  soe. 

Poor  Flutterer  goe ! 

If  Head  with  Hearte  could  so  accord. 

In  bond  of  perfyte  Amitie, 
That  Falsehood  raigned  in  Thoughte,  Deed,  Word — 

This  Worldes  for  Thee. 
But  scorning  guile,  Trath-plighted  one ! 

Thy  race  is  run. 

Couldst  thou  laugh  loud,  when  griev'd  hearts  weep. 
And  Fiendlyke  probe  their  Agonye, 

Rich  harvest  here  thou  soon  wouldst  reap€; — ' 
This  Worldes  for  Thee. 

But  with  the  weeper  thou  must  weepe, 
And  sad  watch  keep. 

Couldst  thou  smyle  swete  when  Wrong  hath  WTung 
The  withers  of  the  Poore  but  Prowde, 

And  by  the  rootes  pluck  out  the  tongue 
That  dare  be  lowde 

In  Righteous  cause,  whate'er  may  be, — 
This  Worldes  for  Thee. 

This  canst  thou  not !  Then,  fluttering  thing. 

Unstained  in  thy  purityc, 
Sweep  towards  heaven  with  tireless  wing, — 

Meet  Home  for  Thee. 
Fear  not,  the  crashing  of  Lyfe's  Tree, — 

God's  Love  guides  Thee. 

And  thus  it  is  : — these  solemn  bells, 

Swinging  in  the  turret  free, 
And  tolling  forth  theire  sad  farewells, 

O'er  Land  and  Sea, 
Tell  how  Ileartes  breake,  full  fast,  and  then, 

Growe  whole  againe. 


VOICES    OF    THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


127 


THE  SOUL'S  ERRAND. 

BY  JOSHUA  SVLVESTER. 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest. 
Upon  a  thankless  errand  ! 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  best, 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant ; 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 
And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  court  it  glows. 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood ; 
Go,  tell  the  church  it  shows 
What's  good,  and  doth  no  good  : 
If  church  and  court  reply, 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates,  they  live 

Acting  by  others'  actions, 
Not  loved  unless  they  give. 

Not  strong  but  by  their  factions. 
If  potentates  reply. 
Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition. 

That  rule  affairs  of  state. 

Their  purpose  is  ambition. 

Their  practice  only  hate. 

And  if  they  once  reply, 

Give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most, 

They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
Who  in  their  greatest  cost, 

Seek  nothing  but  commending. 
And  if  they  make  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  lacks  devotion. 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust. 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion, 
Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust ; 
And  wish  them  not  reply. 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth. 

Tell  honor  how  it  alters, 
Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth. 
Tell  favor  how  she  falters. 
And  as  they  shall  reply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  niceness  : 
Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness. 
And  when  they  do  reply. 
Straight  give  them  both  the  He. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness, 
Tell  skill  it  is  pretension, 


Tell  charity  of  coldness, 
Tell  law  it  is  contention. 
And  as  they  do  reply. 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  Ibrtune  of  her  blindness. 

Tell  nature  of  decay. 
Tell  friendship  of  nnkindness. 
Tell  justice  of  delay. 
And  if  they  will  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundness. 

But  vary  by  esteeming. 
Tell  schools  they  want  profoundness, 
.^nd  stand  too  much  on  seeming. 
If  arts  and  schools  reply. 
Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  faith  it 's  fled  the  city. 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth. 
Tell,  manhood  shakes  off  pity. 
Tell,  virtue  least  preferreth, 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So,  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing  ; 
Although  to  give  the  lie, 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing  ; 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 


ETTY    ROVER. 

B'X   L.  E.  L. 

Thou  lovely  and  thou  happy  child. 

Ah,  how  I  envy  thee  ! 
I  should  be  glad  to  change  our  state. 

If  such  a  change  might  be. 

And  yet  it  is  a  lingering  joy 

To  watch  a  thing  so  fair ; 
To  think  that  in  our  weary  life 

Such  pleasant  moments  are. 

A  little  monarch  thou  art  there, 

And  of  a  fairy  realm. 
Without  a  foe  to  overthrow, 

A  care  to  overwhelm. 

Thy  world  is  in  thy  own  glad  will, 

And  in  each  fresh  delight, 
And  in  thy  unused  heart,  which  makes 

Its  own,  its  golden  light. 

With  no  misgivings  in  thy  past, 

Thy  future  with  no  fear  ; 
The  present  circles  thee  around, 

An  angel's  atmosphere. 


128 


VOICES    OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


How  little  is  the  happiness, 

That  will  content  a  child  ; 
A  favorite  dog,  a  sunny  fruit, 

A  blossom  growing  wild. 

A  word  will  fill  the  little  heart 
With  pleasure  and  with  pride  ; 

It  is  a  harsh,  a  cruel  thing, 
That  such  can  be  denied. 

And  yet  how  many  weary'hours 
Those  joyous  creatures  know  ; 

How  much  of  sorrow  and  restraint 
They  to  their  elders  owe  ! 

How  much  they  suffer  from  our  faults, 
How  much  from  our  mistakes  I 

How  often,  too,  mistaken  zeal 
An  infant's  misery  makes  ! 

We  overrule,  and  overteach, 

We  curb  and  we  confine; 
And  put  the  heart  to  school  too  soon, 

To  learn  our  narrow  line. 

No  ;  only  taught  by  love  to  love, 
Seems  childhood's  natural  task  ; 

Affection,  gentleness,  and  hope. 
Are  all  its  brief  years  ask. 

Enjoy  thy  happiness,  sweet  child, 
With  careless  heart  and  eye; 

Enjoy  those  few  bright  hours  which  now. 
E'en  now,  are  hurrying  by. 

And  let  the  gazer  on  thy  face 
Grow  glad  with  watching  thee, 

And  better,  kinder— such,  at  least, 
Its  influence  on  me. 


THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT'S  LAMENT. 

BY  MRS.  BLACKWOOD. 

I'm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
One  bright  May  morning  long  ago, 

When  you  were  first  my  bride ; 
The  corn  was  springing  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high. 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then  ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear. 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  : 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand. 

And  your  breath  warm  on  my  cheek, 
And  I  still  keep  list'ning  for  the  words 

You  never  more  may  speak. 


'Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary, 

I  see  the  si)ire  from  here  ; 
But  the  grave-yard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest ; 
For  I've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep. 

With  your  baby  on  3'^our  breast. 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends ; 
But,  0,  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends  ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary — 

My  blessing  and  my  pride  ; 
There's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now. 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died  ! 

Your's  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on. 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul. 

And  my  arms'  young  strength  had  gone. 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow ; 
I  bless  you  Mary,  for  that  same. 

Though  you  can't  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile. 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break. 
When  the  hunger- pain  was  gnawing  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake ! 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word. 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore  ; 
Oh  !  I'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  INIary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more. 

I'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true  '. 
But  I'll  not  forget  3-ou,  darling, 

In  the  land  I'm  going  to  : 
They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there  : 
But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I'll  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes. 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  IMary  lies  ; 
And  I'll  think  I  see  the  little  stile. 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side. 
And  the  springing  corn,  and  bright  INIay  morn. 

When  first  you  were  my  bride  ! 

Lost — Yesterday,  somewhere  between  sunrise 
and  sunset,  two  gohkti  hours,  each  set  with  sixty 
(Jiaimnid  minutes.  No  reward  is  offered,  for  they 
are  gone  forever. 

FonnivENEss  is  the  odor  exhaled  by  (lowers  when 
trampled  upon. 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE  HEARTED. 


A    DIRGE. 

BT    JAJIES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

Poet  I  lonely  is  thy  bed, 
And  the  turf  is  overhead, — 

Cold  earth  is  thy  cover  ; 
But  thy  heart  hath  found  release, 
And  it  slumbers  full  of  peace 
'Neath  the  rustle  of  green  trees, 
And  the  warm  hum  of  the  bees 

Mid  the  drowsy  clover  ; 
Through  thy  chamber  still  as  death 
A  smooth  gurgle  wandereth. 
As  the  blue  stream  murmureth 

To  the  blue  sky  over. 
Where  thy  stainless  clay  doth  lie 
Clear  and  open  is  the  sky, 
And  the  white  clouds  wander  by, 
Dreams  of  summer,  silently 

Darkening  the  river  ; 
Thou  hearest  the  clear  water  run, 
And  the  ripples,  every  one 
Scattering  the  golden  sun, 

Through  thy  silence  quiver. 

Thou  wast  full  of  love  and  truth, 

Of  forgivingness  and  ruth, — 

Thy  great  heart  with  hope  and  youth 

Tided  to  o'erflowing ; 
Thou  didst  dwell  in  mysteries, 
And  there  lingered  on  thine  eyes 
Shadows  of  serener  skies. 
Awfully  wild  memories 

That  were  like  foreknowing; 
Thou  didst  remember  well  and  long 
Some  fragments  of  thine  angel-song. 
And  strive,  through  want,  and  woe,  and  wrong 

To  win  the  world  unto  it ; 
Thy  curse  it  was  to  see  and  hear 
Beyond  to-day's  scant  hemisphere. 
Beyond  all  mists  of  doubt  and  fear, 
Into  a  life  more  true  and  clear, — 

And  dearly  thou  didst  rue  it. 

"  Thou  sow'st  no  gold,  and  shalt  not  reap  !" 
Muttered  Earth,  turning  in  her  sleep ; 
"  Come  home  to  the  eternal  deep!" 
Murmured  a  voice,  and  a  wide  sweep 
Of  wings  through  thy  soul's  hush  did  creep, 

As  of  thy  doom  o'erflying ; 
It  seemed  as  thy  strong  heart  would  leap 
Out  of  thy  breast,  and  thou  didst  weep, 

But  not  with  fear  of  dying  ; 


Men  could  not  fathom  tliy  deep  fears, 
They  could  not  understand  thy  tears, 
I'he  hoarded  agony  of  years 

Of  bitter  self-denying ; 
So  once,  when,  high  above  the  spheres, 
Thy  spirit  sought  its  starry  peers. 
It  came  not  back  to  face  the  jeers 

Of  brothers  who  denied  it ; 
Star-crowned,  thou  dost  possess  the  deeps 
Of  God,  and  thy  white  body  sleeps 
Where  the  lone  pine  for  ever  keeps 

Patient  watch  beside  it. 

Poet !  underneath  the  turf. 

Soft  thou  sleepest,  free  from  morrow  ; 
Thou  hast  struggled  through  the  surf 

Of  wild  thoughts,  and  want,  and  sorrow; 
Now,  beneath  the  moaning  pine, 

Full  of  rest  thy  body  lieth, 
While,  far  up  in  pure  sunshine, 
Underneath  a  sky  divine, 

Her  loosed  wings  thy  spirit  trieth ; 
Oft  she  strove  to  spread  them  here. 
But  they  were  too  white  and  clear 
For  our  dingy  atmosphere. 

Thy  body  findeth  ample  room 
In  its  still  and  grassy  tomb 

By  the  silent  river  ; 
But  thy  spirit  found  the  earth 
Narrow  for  the  mighty  birth 

Which  it  dreamed  of  ever  ; 
Thou  wast  guilty  of  a  rhyme 
Learned  in  a  benigner  clime, 
And  of  that  more  grievous  crime, — 
An  ideal  too  sublime 
For  the  low-hung  sky  of  Time. 

The  calm  spot  where  thy  body  lies 
Gladdens  thy  soul  in  Paradise, 

It  is  so  still  and  holy  ; 
Thy  body  sleeps  serenely  there, 
And  well  for  it  thy  soul  may  care, 
It  was  so  beautiful  and  rare, 

Lily-white  so  wholly  : 
From  so  pure  and  sweet  a  frame 
Thy  spirit  parted  as  it  came, 

Gentle  as  a  maiden  ; 
Now  it  hath  its  full  of  rest, 
Sods  are  lighter  on  its  breast 
Than  the  great  prophetic  guest 

Wherewith  it  was  laden. 
9 


130 


VOICES    OF   THE    T  R  U  K  -  H  E  A  R  T  E  I) , 


PRISON   DISCIPLINE. 

BY    LYDIA    MARIA    CHILD. 

A  Society  has  lately  been  organized  here,  for  the 
Reform  of  Prisons  and  their  inmates,  'i'heir  first 
object  is  to  introduce  into  our  prisons  such  a  mode 
of  discipline  as  is  best  calculated  to  reform  criminals, 
by  stimulating  and  encouraging  wliat  remains  of 
good  within  them,  while  they  are  at  the  same  time 
kept  under  strict  regulations,  and  guided  by  a  firm 
hand.  Their  next  object  is  to  render  discliarged  con- 
victs such  assistance  as  will  be  most  likely  to  guide 
them  into  the  paths  of  sober  and  successful  industry. 
John  VV.  Edmonds,  President  of  the  Board  of  In- 
spectors at  Sing  Sing  Prison,  pleaded  for  the  benevo- 
lent objects  of  the  institution  with  real  earnestness 
of  heart;  and  brought  forward  abundant  statistics, 
carefully  prepared,  to  show  the  need  of  s'.ich  an  asso- 
ciation, and  to  prove  that  crime  always  diminishes 
in  proportion  to  the  amelioration  of  the  laws.  He 
urged  the  alarming  fact  that  from  200  to  250  con- 
victs a  year,  from  Sing  Sing,  were  returned  upon 
society,  nearly  without  money,  without  friends, 
(except  among  the  vicious)  without  character,  and 
without  employment.  Of  these  more  than  half  be- 
long to  the  cities  of  New  York  and  Brookl_\  n  ;  with- 
out taking  into  account  the  numbers  that  pass 
through,  and  often  stop  for  a  season,  on  their  way 
to  other  destinations.  Poor,  unfriended,  discour- 
aged, and  despised,  in  a  state  of  hostility  with  the 
world,  which  often  has  in  reality  done  them  more 
grievous  wrong  than  they  have  done  the  world,  how 
terribly  powerful  must  be  the  temptation  to  new 
crimes ! 

In  answer  to  the  common  plea,  that  most  of  these 
wretched  people  were  old  offenders,  hardened  in 
vice  and  not  likely  to  be  restored  by  Christian  efforts, 
he  stated  that  of  the  934  now  in  the  prison,  only  154 
had  been  in  prison  before  ;  599  of  them,  about  two- 
thirds  of  the  whole  number,  were  under  thirty 
years  of  age;  192  were  under  twenty-one  years  of 
age  ;  and  27  were  not  seventeen  years  old,  when 
they  were  sentenced.  Of  thirty-one  now  confirmed 
lunatics,  twenty-two  were  so  when  they  were  com- 
mitted. 

He  said  he  had  no  faith  whatever  in  the  system 
of  violence,  which  had  so  long  prevailed  in  the 
world  ;  the  system  of  tormenting  criminals  into  what 
was  called  good  onler,  and  of  never  appealing  to  any- 
thing better  than  the  base  sentiment  of  fear.  He  had 
seen  enough,  in  his  own  experience,  to  convince  him 
that,  degraded  as  they  were,  they  still  had  hearts 
that  could  be  touched  by  kindness,  consciences  that 
might  be  aroused  by  appeals  to  reason,  and  aspira- 
tions for  a  better  course  of  life,  which  often  needed 
only  the  cheering  voice  of  .syinjjuthy  and  liojie,  to 
be  strengtlicned  into  permanent  reformation. 

Of  lute  there  has  been  a  gradual  amelioration  of 
discipline  at  Sing  Sing,  'i'hree  thousand  lashes, 
with  a  cat  ol  six  tails:,  used  to  be  inflicted   in  the 


course  of  a  month  ;  now  there  are  not  as  many  hnu- 
dieds  ;  and  the  conviction  is  constantly  growing 
stronger,  that  it  will  be  wisest,  as  a  mere  matter  of 
policy,  to  dispense  with  coporeal  punishment  alto- 
gether. This  is  somewhat  gained  in  the  course  of 
the  eighteen  centuries,  which  have  rolled  away, 
thiough  rivers  of  human  blood,  since  Christ  said,  "  If 
thy  brother  offend  thee,  forgive  him.  I  say  unto 
thee  not  until  seven  times,  but  until  seventy  times 
seven."  If  our  religion  is  not  practicable,  honest 
men  ought  not  to  profess  it. 

A  very  great  change  has  taken  place  in  the  wo- 
men's department  of  the  prison  ;  under  the  firm  but 
kind  administration  of  JMrs.  Farnham,  and  her  col- 
leagues, who  do  not  discharge  their  arduous  duties 
merely  as  a  means  of  gaining  a  living,  but  who  feel 
a  sincere  sympathy  for  the  wretched  beings  intrusted 
to  their  care.  The  difference  between  their  govern- 
ment and  the  old  fashioned  method,  cannot  perhaps 
be  more  concisely  indicated  than  by  the  following 
anecdote  :  Two  minister  in  the  Society  of  Friends 
travelled  together,  and  one  was  much  more  success- 
ful in  his  labours  than  the  other.  "  How  dost  thou 
manage  to  take  so  rrrich  more  hold  of  the  hearts  of 
the  people,  than  I  do?'  said  the  least  eflicient  preach- 
er. "I  can  explain  it  in  few  words,"  replied  the 
other:  "  I  tell  people  that  if  they  do  right  they 
shall  not  be  whipped.  Thou  sayestthat  if  they  dwt't 
do  right,  they  shall  be  whipped." 

In  other  words  the  system  now  begun  at  Sing 
Sing  is  to  punish  as  sparingly  as  possible,  and  to 
give  cordial  praise  and  increase  of  privileges,  for 
every  indication  of  improvement,  'i  he  wisdom  of 
such  a  course  was  suggested  to  my  mind  several 
years  ago,  by  an  intelligent,  well  educated  woman, 
who  had,  by  intemperance,  become  an  inmate  of  the 
almshouse  at  South  Boston.  "Oh!"  said  she,  "if 
they  would  only  give  us  more  encouragement  and 
less  driving  ;  if  they  would  grant  increased  privileges 
for  doing  well,  instead  of  threatening  punishment  for 
doing  wrong ;  I  could  perform  my  tasks  with  a  cheer- 
ful heart,  if  they  would  only  say  to  me,  'Do  your 
task  quickly,  and  behave  well,  and  you  shall  hear 
music  one  evening  in  the  week,  or  you  may  have 
one  day  of  the  six  to  read  entertaining  books.'  But 
instead  of  that,  it  always  is,  '  If  your  task  in  not 
done  well,  you  will  be  punished.'  Oh  I  nobody,  that 
has  never  tried  it,  knows  how  hard  this  makes  work 
go  of!  " 

I  thought  of  this  woman  when  I  read  Barry  Corn- 
wall's lines,  called  Tiiu  Poor-House: 

•'  Kritor  and  look  !      In  llie  liigli  wuUed   yards 

Ficicr  iiK'ii  me  i^'uciiiij  llie  bantu  vmuiid. 
Killer  tlie  Imii;.  bare  cboiiiber)!  !      liiria 

And  Wdiiif  11  arc  H(\viiii»  willimil  n  simiid  — 
Si-wini»  Irciin  iiidrii  lill  the  tlisiiml  eve. 

And  nr)t  a  luujih  oi-  u   sung  goes  round. 
"  No  counniinion — no  kind  tbunglit, 

Itwells  in  the  pauper's  breast  of  care  ; 
Nolliini!  l)iit  pain  in  the  ijrievong  past  — 

Nolliinf'tii  come,  bul'tlie  blnrk  despair 
Of  bread  in  prison,  bereft  of  friends, 

Or  htinn-^  out  in  llic  open  air !"' 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


I'M 


Acting  upon  the  principle  to  which  I  have  alluded, 
the  President  of  the  inspectors  at  Sing  Sing,  last 
Fourth  of  July,  sent  each  of  the  seventy  three  vi'o- 
men  prisoners  a  beautiful  boquet,  with  a  note,  ask- 
ing them  to  receive  the  flowers  as  a  testimonial  of 
his  approbation  for  their  good  conduct.  When  the 
matrons  passed  through  the  galleries,  every  woman 
came  to  the  door  of  her  cell,  with  the  flowers  in  her 
hand,  and  earnest  thanks,  and  the  whispered  "  God 
bless  yon,"  met  them  at  every  step.  Being  after- 
ward assembled  in  the  chapel,  they  brought  their 
flowers;  and  while  the  mation  talked  with  them  like 
a  mother,  about  the  necessity  of  forming  habits  of 
self-government,  and  of  the  effect  of  their  present 
conduct  on  their  future  prospects  in  life,  the  tears 
flowed  plentifully,  and  convulsive  sobs  were  audible. 
One  of  the  matrons  writes  : 

"The  effect  of  this  little  experiment  has  been 
manifest  in  the  more  quiet  and  gentle  movements 
of  the  prisoners,  in  their  softened  and  subdued  tones 
of  voice,  and  in  their  ready  and  cheerful  obedience. 
It  has  deepened  my  conviction  that, however  degraded 
by  sin,  or  hardened  by  outrage  and  wrong,  while 
Reason  maintains  its  empire  over  the  Mind,  there  is 
no  heart  so  callous  or  obdurate,  that  the  voice  of 
Sympathy  and  Kindness  may  not  reach  it,  or  so  de- 
based, as  to  give  no  response  to  the  tones  of  Chris- 
tian Love." 

On  Thanksgiving  day,  one  of  the  matrons,  as  a  re- 
ward for  the  good  behaviour  of  the  prisoners,  caused 
her  piano  to  be  removed  to  the  chapel,  and  tunes 
of  praise  and  worship  were  mingled  with  friendly 
exhortations.  We,  who  live  freely  amid  the  fair 
sights  and  sounds  of  our  Father's  creation,  can  hard- 
ly imagine  how  soothing  and  refreshing  is  the  voice 
of  music  to  the  prisoner's  weary  and  desolate  soul. 
And  then  the  kindness  of  bringing  music  and  flowers 
to  them  !  of  offering  to  the  outcast  and  degraded 
those  graceful  courtesies  usually  appropriated  to  the 
happy,  the  refined,  and  the  beloved! — this  touched 
their  inmost  hearts,  even  more  deeply  than  the  bless- 
ed voice  of  music.  They  wept  like  children,  and 
one  of  them  said,  '<  It  does  not  seem  as  if  we  could 
ever  want  to  do  wrong  again." 

Nor  are  repentant  words  their  only  proofs  of  gra- 
titude. Instead  of  riot,  blasphemy,  and  obscenity, 
they  are  now  distinguished  for  order,  decorum  and 
cheerful  industry.  The  offences  against  prison  dis- 
cipline, in  that  department,  formerly  averaged  forty- 
seven  a  month  ;  they  now  average  only  seven.  This 
favourable  change  is  attributed  mainly  to  friendly  in- 
struction, and  improved  classification  ;  not  classifica- 
tion according  to  crimes  committed,  but  according  to 
obedience,  and  indications  of  a  sincere  wish  to  re- 
form. One  of  the  keepers  told  me  that  she  now  sel- 
dom had  occasion  to  resort  to  anything  harsher  than 
to  say,  "  It  will  give  me  great  pain  and  trouble  if  you 
do  not  obey  me.  I  am  trying  to  do  you  good,  and  to 
make  you  as  happy  as  circumstances  permit.     Sure- 


ly, then,  you  will  not  wi.sh  to  give  me  pain."  She 
said  it  was  rare,  indeed,  that  this  simple  and  affec- 
tionate appeal  was  unavailing.  Alas,  for  the  wrongs 
that  have  been  done  to  human  hearts,  under  the  mis- 
taken idea  of  terrifying  and  tormenting  sinners  out 
of  their  sins.  Sutan  ncfcr  cast  out  Satan.  Wc  take 
back  precisely  what  we  give;  hardness  for  hardness, 
hatred  lor  hatred,  selfishness  for  selfishness,  love  for 
love. 

I  am  well  aware  that  this  will  sound  very  senti- 
mental to  many  readers.  Very  likely  some  wag 
may  jestingly  describe  these  suggestions,  as  "  a  new 
transcendental  mode  of  curing  crime  by  music  and 
flowers."  If  so,  he  is  welcome  to  his  mirth.  For 
my  own  part,  I  cannot  jest  about  the  misery  or  the 
errors  of  any  of  my  lellow-creatures. 

The  doctrines  of  forgiveness  and  love,  taught  by 
Jesus,  are  not,  as  men  seem  to  suppose, mere  beauti- 
ful sentimental  theories,  fit  only  for  heavei.  :  they 
are  rational  principles,  which  may,  not  only  safely, 
but  profitably,  be  reduced  to  practice  on  earth.  All  di- 
vine principles, ifsuffered  to  flowout  into  the  ultimates 
of  life,  would  prove  the  wisest  political  economy. 

The  assertion  that  society  makes  its  own  crimi- 
nals, interferes  with  the  theological  opinions  of  some. 
They  argue  that  God  leaves  the  will  of  man  free, 
and  therefore  every  individual  is  responsible  entirely 
for  his  own  sin.  Whether  the  same  action  is  equally 
a  sin,  in  the  sight  of  God,  when  committed  by  indi- 
viduals in  totally  different  circumstances,  I  will  not 
attempt  to  discuss.  Such  questions  should  reverently 
be  left  to  Him  who  made  the  heart,  and  who  alone 
can  judge  it.  But  I  feel  that  if  I  were  to  commit  a 
crime,  with  my  education,  and  the  social  influences 
that  prop  my  weakness  in  every  direction,  I  should 
be  a  much  worse  sinner  than  a  person  guilty  of  the 
same  deed,  whose  childhood  had  been  passed  among 
the  lowest  haunts  of  vice,  and  whose  after  years  had 
been  unvisited  by  outward  influences  to  purify  and 
refine.  The  degree  of  conviction  resisted  would  be 
the  measure  of  my  sin. 

The  simple  fact  is,  human  beings  stand  between 
two  kinds  of  influences,  the  inward  and  the  outward. 
The  inward  is  the  spirit  of  God,  which  strives  with 
us  always.  The  outward  is  the  influence  of  Educa- 
tion, Society,  Government,  &c.  In  a  right  state  of 
things,  these  two  would  be  in  perfect  harmony;  but 
it  is  painfully  obvious  that  they  are  now  discordant. 
Society  should  stand  to  her  poor  in  the  relation  of  a 
parent,  not  of  a  master. 

People  who  are  most  unwilling  to  admit  that  ex- 
ternal circumstances  have  an  important  agency  in 
producing  crime,  are  nevertheless  extremely  careful 
to  place  //u7r  children  under  safe  outward  influences. 
So  little  do  they  trust  their  free  will  to  the  guidance 
of  Providence,  they  often  fear  to  have  them  attend 
schools,  taught  by  persons  whose  creeds  they  be- 
lieve to  be  vuitrue.  If  governments  took  equally  pa- 
ternal care,  if  they  would  spend  more  money  to  pre- 


132 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


vent  crime,  they  would  need  to  expend  less  in  pun- 
ishin"  it.  In  proportion  as  Hamburg  Redemption 
Institntcs  increase,  prisons  will  diminish.  'I'lie  right 
of  Society  to  punish,  or  restrain,  implies  the  duty  to 
prevent.  When  Bonaparte  objected  to  ;i  woman's 
talking  politics,  Madame  de  Stael  shrewdly  replied, 
"  In  a  country  where  women  are  beheaded,  it's  very 
natural  they  should  ask  the  reason  why."  And  it 
the  children  of  poor  and  ignorant  men  are  branded, 
and  ruined  for  life,  by  the  operation  of  civil  laws,  it 
is  reasonable  that  they  should  be  early  taught 
those  moral  obligations  on  which  laws  are  based. 

Few  are  aware  how  imperfectly  most  criminals 
understand  the  process  by  which  they  are  condemn- 
ed, and  how  very  far  it  is  from  impressing  them  as 
a  moral  lesson.  A  young  girl  of  seventeen  was  con- 
demned to  the  State  Prison  for  three  years,  on 
charge  of  being  accomplice  in  a  theft.  Her  trial  oc- 
cupied but  one  hour,  and  she  had  no  counsel.  The 
account  she  gave  me  of  this  brief  legal  performance, 
touched  my  heart  most  deeply.  "  They  carried  me 
into  another  room,"  said  she,  "  and  there  were  a 
great  many  strange  faces ;  and  one  gentleman  said 
something  to  me,  but  I  did  not  understand  what  he 
meant ;  and  another  gentleman  talked  a  good  deal. 
It  seemed  to  be  all  against  me.  They  did  not  ask 
me  anything,  and  nobody  said  anything  for  me  ;  and 
then  they  told  me  I  must  go  to  Sing  Sing  for  three 
years."  Do  half  the  criminals  understand  the  pro- 
ceedings against  them  any  better  than  this  ?  That 
certain  things  are  punished,  they  indeed  know  very 
well ;  but  this  seems  to  them  a  mere  arbitrary  exer- 
cise of  power,  to  be  avoided  by  cunning ;  for  early 
education,  and  the  social  influences  around  them, 
have  confounded  the  distinctions  between  right  and 
wrong. 

I  repeat  that  Society  is  answerable  for  crime,  be- 
cause it  is  so  negligent  of  duty.  And  I  vvould  re- 
spectfully suggest  to  legislators,  what  probably 
will  have  more  power  to  attract  their  attention,  than 
any  considerations  of  human  brotherhood,  viz  :  that  a 
practical  adaptation  of  our  civil  institutions  to  Chris- 
tian principles  would  prove  an  immense  saving  of 
money  to  the  State.  The  energy  spent  in  commit- 
ting crime,  and  in  punishing  crime,  is  a  frightful 
waste  of  human  labour.  Society  calculates  its  me- 
chanical forces  belter  than  its  moral.  They  do  not 
observe,  that  "  on  the  occasion  of  every  great  crime, 
a  proportionally  great  force  was  in  motion  ;  and  they 
do  not  rellect  how  different  would  be  tlie  product  of 
the  social  sum,  if  that  force  had  been  wisely  instead 
of  unwisely  employed.  Add  to  this,  the  alarming 
consideration  that  crime  hardened  by  severity  is  con- 
tinually sent  back  upon  society;  that  society  thrusts 
at  it  with  a  thousand  spear  points,  and  goads  it  to 
desperation,  to  be  again  punished  by  a  renewal  of  the 
hardening  process. 

Inquiry  into  the  causes  of  crime,  and  the  means  of 
prevention,  cannot  receive  too  much  attention  from 


the  wise  and  good.  «'  The  soil  of  Vesuvius  has  been 
explored,"  says  Schiller,  "  to  discover  the  origin  of 
its  eruptions;  and  why  is  less  attention  paid  to  a 
moral  than  to  a  physical  phenomenon?  Why  do  we 
not  equally  regard  the  nature  and  situation  of  the 
things  which  surround  a  man  until  the  tinder  within 
him  takes  fire  ?' 

Poulmann,  lately  beheaded  in  Paris,  for  robbe- 
ry and  murder,  when  his  head  was  under  the  axe, 
said  :  "I  owe  society  a  grudge, because  it  condemn- 
ed me  to  the  galleys  when  I  was  oiibj  seventeen.  Af- 
ter the  expiration  of  the  term  for  which  I  was  sen- 
tenced, there  was  still  enough  stuff  left  in  me  to  make 
an  honest  man.  Eut  I  was  always  pointed  at  as  a 
liberated  galley  slave." 

In  connection  with  this  subject,  I  would  most  ur- 
gently entreat  all  who  will  listen  to  me,  to  be  very 
cautious  how  they  treat  a  first  crime,  in  any  person. 
I  have  known  young  girls  of  sixteen  sent  to  Black- 
well's  Island,  for  stealing  property  valued  at  twenty- 
five  cents.  Once  there,  seen  by  visitors  in  company 
with  prostitutes  and  thieves,  haunted  by  a  continual 
sense  of  degradation,  is  their  future  course  likely  to 
be  other  than  a  downward  one  ?  To  employers,  who 
take  such  harsh  measures  with  erring  domestics,  in- 
stead of  friendly  exhortation,  and  Christian  interest 
in  the  welfare  of  a  human  sou!,  I  always  want  to  say. 
Ah,  if  she  were  thy  own  daughter,  dependent  on  the 
kindness  and  forbearance  of  strangers,  is  it  tJius  you 
would  have  them  treat  her  ?  If  she  once  had  a  mo- 
ther, who  watched  her  cradle  tenderly,  and  folded 
her  warmly  to  a  loving  heart,  treat  her  gently  for 
that  mother's  sake.  If  her  childhood  was  unnur- 
tured, and  uncheered  by  the  voice  of  love,  then  treat 
her  more  gently,  for  that  very  reason;  and  remem- 
ber the  saying,  "  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto 
one  of  the  least  of  these,  my  brethren,  ye  have  done 
it  unto  me." 

I  would  likewise  entreat  those  who  happen  to 
know  of  some  delinquency  in  a  fellow-being,  to  keep 
the  secret  faithfully,  so  long  as  his  life  gives  assu- 
rance of  sincere  amendment.  A  very  young  man, 
who  is  now  in  Sing  Sing,  when  tried  for  his  second 
offence,  told  a  story  at  the  bar,  which  was  in  sub- 
stance as  follows  :  "  JMy  first  offence  was  committed 
more  in  thoughtlessness,  than  with  deliberate  wick- 
edness. But  I  felt  that  I  was  to  blame,  and  was 
willing  to  bear  the  penalty  like  a  man.  In  prison,  I 
formed  the  strongest  resolutions  to  atone  for  my  fault 
by  a  life  of  honest  usefulness.  When  my  time  was 
out,  I  succeeded,  after  a  good  deal  of  difficulty,  in 
obtaining  employment.  I  did  my  best  to  gain  the 
confidence  of  my  employer,  and  succeeded.  Every 
day  I  felt  my  manhood  grow  stronger.  But  at  last  a 
person  came  into  the  store,  who  eyed  me  keenly, 
and  I  turned  pale  under  his  gaze.  He  told  my  em- 
ployer that  he  had  seen  me  among  the  convicts  at 
Sing  Sing;  and  I  was  sternly  dismissed  from  his  ser- 
vice.    I  went  to  Philadelpha  to  seek  for  any  honest 


V  0  I  C  E  S    0  F     ni  E  TR  U  E  -  H  EA  R  T  E  D. 


13.3 


employment  I  could  find  ;  but  a  man,  who  saw  me 
there,  told  me  if  I  did  not  quit  the  city  in  twenty- 
four  hours,  he  would  expose  me.  I  came  back  dis- 
heartened to  New  York.  I  had  spent  r.iy  last  dollar. 
Christians  would  not  give  me  a  home  ;  gamblers  and 
thieves  would  ;  and  here  I  am  again  on  my  way  to 
Sing  Sing." 

Isaac  T.  Hopper,  agent  of  the  benevolent  associa- 
tion I  have  mentioned,  related  several  highly  inter- 
esting incidents,  which  occurred  while  he  was  one 
of  the  inspectors  of  the  Philadelphia  prison. 

He  said  that  Mary  Norris,  a  middle-aged  woman, 
who  had  been  frequently  re-committed,  on  one  occa- 
sion, begged  him  to  intercede  for  her,  tliat  she  might 
go  out.  "  I  am  al'raid  thou  wouldst  come  back  again 
soon,"  said  he. 

"Very  likely;  I  expect  to  be  brought  back 
soon,"  she  answered,  with  stolid  indifference  of  man- 
ner. 

"Then  where  will  be  the  good  of  letting  thee 
out?" 

"  I  should  like  to  go  out,"  she  replied.  "  It  would 
seem  good  to  feel  free  a  little  while,  in  the  open  air 
and  the  sunshine." 

"But  if  thou  enjoys  thy  liberty  so  much,  why  dost 
thou  allow  thyself  to  be  brought  back  again?" 

"  How  can  I  help  it?  When  I  go  out  of  prison, 
nobody  will  employ  me.  No  respectable  people  will 
let  me  come  into  their  houses.  1  must  go  to  such 
friends  as  I  have.  If  they  steal,  or  commit  other  of- 
fences, I  shall  be  taken  up  with  them.  Whether  I 
am  guilty  or  not,  is  of  no  consequence  :  nobody  will 
believe  me  innocent.  They  will  all  say,  «  She  is  an 
old  convict.  Send  her  back  to  prison.  That  is 
the  best  place  for  lif.r.''  0,  yes,  I  expect  to  come 
back  soon.  There  is  no  use  in  my  trying  to  do  bet- 
ter." 

Much  affected  by  her  tone  of  utter  hopelessness, 
Friend  Hopper  said,"  But  if  I  could  obtain  steady  em- 
ployment for  thee,  where  thou  wouldst  be  treated 
kindly,  and  paid  for  thy  services,  wouldst  thou  real- 
ly try  to  behave  well  1" 

Her  countenance  brightened,  and  she  eagerly  re- 
plied, "  Indeed,  I  would." 

The  kind  hearted  inspector  used  his  influence  to 
procure  her  dismissal,  and  provided  a  place  for  her, 
as  head  nurse  in  a  hospital  for  the  poor.  She  remain- 
ed there  more  than  seventeen  years,  and  discharged 
the  duties  of  her  situation  so  faithfully,  that  she 
gained  the  respect  and  confidence  of  all  who  knew 
her. 

Patrick  McKever,  a  poor  Irishman  in  Philadelphia, 
was  many  years  ago  sentenced  to  be  hung  for  bur- 
glary. For  some  reason  or  other  he  was  reprieved 
at  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  and  his  sentence  changed 
to  ten  years'  imprisonment.  He  was  a  man  of  few 
words,  and  hope  seemed  almost  dead  within  him  ; 
but  when  Friend  Hopper,  who  became  inspector  dur- 
ing the  latter  part  of  his  term,  talked  to  him  like  a 


brother,  his  heart  was  evidently  touched  by  the  voice 
of  kindness.  Afterhis  release,  he  returned  to  his 
trade,  and  conducted  in  a  very  sober,  exem))lary 
manner.  The  inspector  often  met  him,  and  spoke 
words  of  friendly  encouragement.  Things  were 
going  on  very  satisfactorily,  when  a  robbery  was 
committed  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  Patrick  was 
inimediatelyarrested.  His  friend  went  to  the  Mayor, 
and  inquired  what  proof  there  was  that  he  com- 
mitted the  robbery.  "  No  proof;  but  he  is  an  old 
convict,  and  that  is  enough  to  condemn  him,"  was 
the  answer. 

"Nay,  it  is  not  enough,''  replied  Friend  Hopper. 
"  He  has  suflered  severely  for  the  crime  he  did  com- 
mit ;  and  since  he  has  shown  the  most  sincere  desire 
to  reform,  it  never  ought  to  be  mentioned  against 
him.  I  think  I  know  his  state  of  mind,  and  I  will  take 
the  responsibility  of  maintaining  that  he  is  not  guil- 
ty. But  to  all  his  urgent  representations,  he  receiv- 
ed the  answer,  "  He  is  an  old  convict;  and  that  is 
enough." 

The  poor  fellow,  hung  his  head  and  said,  in  tones 
of  despair,  "  Well  then,  I  must  make  up  mind  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  my  days  in  prison." 

"  Thou  wert  not  concerned  in  this  robbery,  wert 
thou?"  said  Isaac,  looking  earnestly  in  his  face. 

"  Indeed,  I  was  not.  God  be  my  witness,  I  want 
to  lead  an  honest  life,  and  be  at  peace  with  all  men. 
But  what  good  will  that  do  ?  They  will  all  say,  He 
is  an  old  convict,  and  that  is  enough." 

Friend  Hopper  told  him  he  would  stand  by  him. 
He  did  so ;  and  offered  to  be  bail  for  his  appearance. 
The  gratitude  of  the  poor  fellow  was  overwhelming. 
He  sobbed  like  a  child.  His  innocence  was  after- 
ward proved,  and  to  the  day  of  his  death,  he  con- 
tinued a  virtuous  and  useful  citizen.  What  would 
have  been  his  fate,  if  no  friend  had  appeared  for 
him?  If  every  human  heart  had  refused  to  trust 
him  ? 

The  venerable  speaker  told  the  story  of  two  lads, 
one  fifteen  and  the  other  seventeen,  who  had  been 
induced  by  a  bad  father  to  swear  falsely,  to  gratify 
his  own  revengeful  feelings.  They  were  detected, 
and  sent  to  prison.  When  Friend  Hopper  saw  them 
arrive  at  dusk,  hand-cuffed  and  chained  together, 
their  youth  and  desolate  appearance  touched  his 
compassionate  feelings.  "  Be  of  good  heart,  my  poor 
lads,"  said  he;  "You  can  retrieve  this  one  false  step, 
if  you  will  but  try.  You  may  make  useful  and  re- 
spectable men  yet."  He  took  care  to  place  them 
away  from  the  contagion  of  those  more  hardened  in 
vice,  and  from  time  time  to  time  he  praised  their 
good  conduct,  and  spoke  to  them  encouragingly  of 
the  future.  After  a  while,  he  proposed  to  the  Board 
of  Inspectors  to  recommend  them  to  the  Governor 
for  pardon.  He  met  with  some  opposition,  but  his 
arguments  finally  prevailed,  and  he  and  another  gen- 
tleman were  appointed  to  wait  on  the  Governor. 
His  request  was  granted,  after  considerable  hesita- 


134 


VOICES    OF    T  II  E  ^  R  U  F.  -  H  E  A  R  T  E  D 


tion,  and  only  on  con<lition  that  worthy  men  could  be 
found,  who  woiilil  take  them  as  apprentices.  Friend 
Hopper  took  the  responsibility,  and  sncceedcd  in 
binding  one  of  thenn  to  a  respectable  turner,  and  the 
other  to  a  carpenter.  After  givitij;  them  much  good 
advice,  he  told  them  to  come  to  him  whenever  they 
were  in  difficulty,  and  to  consider  him  a  father.  For 
a  long  time,  they  were  in  the  habit  of  spending  all 
their  leisure  evenings  with  him,  and  were  well  pleas- 
ed to  listen  to  the  reading  of  instructive  book  s. 
These  brothers  became  respectable  and  thriving  me- 
chanics, married  worthy  women,  and  brought  up 
their  families  in  the  paths  of  sobriety  and  usefulness. 
In  the  days  of  their  prosperity.  Friend  Hopper  intro- 
duced them  to  the  Governor,  as  the  laiis  he  had  been 
so  much  afraid  to  pardon.  The  magistrate  took  them 
by  the  hand,  most  cordially,  and  thanked  them  for 
the  great  public  good  they  had  done  by  their  excel- 
lent exami)le. 

Out  of  as  many  as  fifty  similar  cases,  in  which 
he  had  been  interested.  Friend  Hopper  said  he 
recollected  but  two,  that  had  resulted  unfavourably. 
The  dungeon  and  the  scourge  were  formerly  con- 
sidered the  only  effectual  way  of  restraining  maniacs, 
but  experience  has  proved  that  love  is  the  best  con- 
trolling power.  When  Pinel,  the  humane  French 
physician,  proposed  to  try  this  experiment  in  the 
bedlam  at  Bicetre,  many  supposed  his  life  would  fall 
a  sacrifice.  But  he  walked  fearlessly  into  dungeons 
where  raving  maniacs  had  been  chained,  some  ten 
years,  some  forty  years  ;  and  with  gentle  words,  he 
convinced  them  that  they  were  free  to  go  out  into  the 
sunshine  and  open  air,  if  they  would  allow  him  to 
remove  their  chains  and  put  on  strait  waistcoats.  At 
first,  they  did  not  believe  it,  because  they  had  been 
so  often  deceived.  When  they  found  it  true,  nothing 
could  equal  their  gratituile  and  joy.  I'hey  obeyed 
their  deliverer  with  the  utmost  docility,  and  finally 
became  very  valuable  assistants  in  the  management 
of  the  establishment. 

Dorothea  L.  Dix,  our  American  Mrs.  Fry,  the 
God-appointed  missionary  to  prisons  and  alms-houses, 
told  me  that  experience  hud  more  than  confirmed  her 
faith  in  the  power  of  kindness,  over  the  insane  and 
vicious. 

Among  the  hundreds  of  crazy  people,  with  whom 
her  sacred  mission  has  brought  her  into  compa- 
nionship, she  has  not  found  one  individual,  however 
fierce  and  turbulent,  tliat  could  not  be  calmed  by 
Scripture  and  prayer,  uttered  in  low  and  gentle  tones. 
The  power  of  the  religious  sentiment  over  these 
shattered  souls  seems  perfectly  miraculous.  The 
worship  of  a  quiet,  loving  heart,  affects  them  like  a 
voice  from  heaven.  Tearing  and  rending,  yelling 
and  stamping,  singing  and  groaning,  gradually  sub- 
side into  silence,  and  they  fall  on  their  knees,  or  gaze 
upward  with  clasped  hands,  as  if  they  saw  through 
the  opening  darkness  a  golden  gleam  from  their  Fa- 
ther's throne  of  love. 


On  one  occasion,  this  missionary  of  mercy  was 
earnestly  cautioned  not  to  approach  a  raving  maniac. 
He  yelled  frightfully,  day  and  night,  rent  his  gar- 
ment, plucked  out  his  hairs,  and  was  so  violent,  that 
it  was  supposed  he  would  murder  any  one  who  ven- 
tured within  his  reach.  Miss  Dix  seated  herself  at 
a  little  distance,  and,  without  appearing  to  notice 
him.  began  to  read,  with  serene  countenance  and 
gentle  voice,  certain  passages  of  Scripture,  filled 
with  the  spirit  of  tenderness.  His  shouts  gradually 
subsided  until  at  last  he  became  perfectly  still. 
When  she  paused,  he  said  meekly,  <<  Read  me  some 
more;  it  does  me  good."  And  when,  after  a  pro- 
longed season  of  worship,  she  said,  "  I  must  go  away 
now;'  he  eagerly  replied,  "  No,  ycu  cannot  go.  God 
sent  you  to  me;  and  you  must  not  go."  By  kind 
words,  and  a  promise  to  come  again,  she  finally  ob- 
tained permission  to  depart.  '■  Give  me  your  hand," 
said  he.  She  gave  it,  and  smiled  upon  him.  The 
wild  expression  of  his  haggard  countenance  softened 
to  tearfulness,  as  he  said,  "  Yuu  treat  me  right.  God 
sent  you." 

On  another  occasion,  she  had  been  leading  some 
twenty  or  thirty  maniacs  into  worship,  and  seeing 
them  all  quiet  as  lambs  gathered  into  the  Shepherd's 
fold,  she  prepared  to  go  forth  to  other  duties.  In 
leaving  the  room,  she  passed  an  insane  young  man, 
with  whom  she  had  had  several  interviews.  He  stood 
with  hands  clasped,  and  a  countenance  of  the  deepest 
reverence.  With  a  friendly  .'smile,  she  said,  "Hen- 
ry, are  you  well  to-day  ?''  <'Hush! — hush!"  replied 
he,  sinking  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  gazing  ear- 
nestly on  the  space  around  her,  "  Hush  I — there  are 
angels  with  you  I    They  have  given  you  their  voice." 

But  let  not  the  formalist  suppose  that  he  can  work 
such  miracles  as  these,  in  the  professed  name  of  Je- 
sus. Vain  is  the  Scripture  or  the  prayer,  repeated 
by  rote.  They  must  be  the  meek  utterance  of  a  heart 
overflowing  with  love;  for  to  such  only  do  the  angels 
"  lend  their  voice." 

THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

BY    WILLIAM    H.    BURLEIGH. 

If  maddened  by  oppression,  men  have  torn 
Their  shackles  off,  and  in  an  evil  time 
Spurned  all  restraint,  and  steeped  their  souls  in 
crime, 

Trampling  laws,  customs,  creeds,  in  utter  scorn, 
Giving  the  reign  to  license,  and  through  blood 
Wading  in  quest  of  unsubstantial  good, 

Till  Earth  the  frenzy  of  her  sons  doth  mourn — 

Reproach  not  Liheuxy  !     The  winds  long  pent, 
The  volcano's  fires  repressed,  in  finding  vent 

Sweep  on  in  desolation  I     So  are  born 

All  monstrous  crimes  of  Tyranny — rapine,  lust. 
Murder,  convulsion — then  on  her  alone 
Vengeance  be  heaped !    and   Earth  and  Hcflven 
will  own 

The  terrible  retribution  wise  and  just  I 


VOICES   OF   THE   T  R  U  E  -  H  E  A  R  '1'  E  D  , 


135 


BOOKS  FOR  THE  PEOPLE. 

BY  ANNE   C.   l.YNCII. 

Light  to  the  darken'd  mind 
Bear,  like  the  sim,  the  world's  wide  circle  round — 
Bright  messengers  that  speak  without  a  sound  ! 

Sight  on  the  spirit-blind 
Shall  fall  where'er  ye  pass  :   your  living  ray 
Shall  change  the  night  of  ages  into  day. 

God  speed  ye  on  your  way  ! 

In  closet  and  in  hall 
Too  long  alone  your  message  hath  been  spoken  : 
The  spell  of  gold  that  bound  ye  there  is  broken  ; 

Go  forth,  and  shine  on  all ! 
The  world's  inheritance,  the  legacy 
Bequeath'd  by  Genius  to  the  race  are  ye  : 

Be  like  the  sunlight — free ! 

A  mighty  power  ye  wield  ! 
Ye  wake  dim  centuries  from  their  deep  repose, 

The  spoils  of  time  to  yield. 
Ye  hold  the  gift  of  immortality  : 
Bard,  sage,  and  seer,  whose  fame  shall  never  die 

Live  through  your  ministry. 

Noiseless  upon  your  path, 
Freighted  with  love,  romance,  and  song,  ye  speed. 
Moving  the  world  in  custom  and  in  creed, 

Waking  its  love  or  wrath. 
Tyrants  that  blanch  not  on  the  battle  plain 
Quail  at  your  silent  coming,  and  in  vain 

Would  bind  the  riven  chain. 

Shrines  that  embalm  great  souls, 
Where  yet  the  illustrious  dead  high  converse  hold. 
As  God's  spake  through  their  oracles  of  old  ! 

Upon  your  mystic  scrolls 
There  lives  a  spell  to  guide  our  destiny — 
The  fire  by  night,  the  pillar'd  cloud  by  day. 

Upon  our  upward  way. 


THE  PAUPER'S  DRIVE. 

BY    BAPTIST    NOEL. 

There's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly  round  trot ; 
To  the  church-yard  a  pauper  is  going,  I  wot ; 
The  road  it  is  rough,  and  the  hearse  has  no  springs, 
And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  the  sad  driver  sings  : 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  !" 

Oh,  where  are  the  mourners?  alas!  there  are  none; 
He  has  left  not  a  gap  in  the  world  now  he's  gone  ; 
Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or  man. 
To  the  grave  with  his  carcase  as  fast  as  you  cah  : 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  I" 

What  a  jolting  and  creaking,  and  splashing  and  din  ! 
The  whip  how  it  cracks  I   and  the  wheels  how  they 
spin  I 


How  the  dirt,  right  and  left,  o'er  the  hedges  is  hurled ! 
The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world ! 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  !" 

Poor  pauper  defunct!  he  has  made  some  approach 
To  gentility,  now  that  he's  stretched  in  a  coach! 
He  is  taking  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at  last ; 
But  it  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast  : 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ; 

He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  !" 

You  bumpkins  !  who  stare  at  your  brother  conveyed, 
Behold  what  respect  to  a  cloddy  is  paid, 
And  be  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death  you're  laid  low. 
You've  a  chance  to  the  grave  like  a  gemman  to  go. 
"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  : 
He's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  !' 

But  a  truce  to  this  strain  ;  for  my  soul  it  is  sad 
To  think  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad, 
Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a  desolate  end. 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend  ! 

Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones ; 

Tho'  a  pauper,  he's  one  whom  his  Maker  yet 
owns ! 


THE  CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 

>-Y    WILLIaJI    BLAKE. 

When  my  mother  died,  I  was  very  young. 
And  my  father  sold  me,  while  yet  my  tongue 
Could  scarcely  cry,  "weep!  weep!  weep!   weep!" 
So  your  chimneys  I  sweep,  and  in  soot  I  sleep. 

There's  little  Tom  Dacre,  who  cried  when  his  head, 
That  curled  like  a  lamb's  back,    was  shaved  ;    so  I 

said 
Hush  Tom!  never  mind  it;   for  when  your  head's 

bare, 
You  know  that  the  soot  cannot  spoil  your  white  hair. 

And  so  he  was  quiet ;  and  that  very  night 

As  Tom  was  a-sleeping,  he  had  such  a  sight. 

That  thousands  of  sweepers,  Dick,  Joe,  Ned,  and 

Jack. 
Were  all  of  them  locked  up  in  coffins  of  black. 

And  by  came  an  angel,  who  had  a  bright  key, 
And  he  opened  the  coffins,  and  set  them  all  free  ; 
Then  down  a  green  plain,  leaping,  laughing  they  run. 
And  wash  in  a  river  and  shine  in  the  sun. 

Then  naked  and  white,  all  their  bags  left  behind, 
They  rise  upon  clouds,  and  sport  in  the  wind  ; 
And  the  angel  told  Tom,  if  he'd  be  a  good  boy, 
He'd  have  God  for  his  father,  and  never  want  joy. 

And  so  Tom  awoke,  and  we  rose  in  the  dark. 
And  got  with  our  bags  and  our  brushes  to  work; 
Tho'  the  morning  was  cold,  Tom  was  happy  and 

warm ; 
So  if  all  do  their  duty,  they  need  not  fear  harm. 


l^ft 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  DAY. 

BY    Er.ENEZEIl    ELLIOTT. 
Hail  Subbatli  !  tlico  I  hail,  llie  Poor  Mun's  Dav  !"— (jRaiiam. 

Sabbath  holy ! 
To  the  lowly 
Still  thou  art  a  welcome  day  : 

When  thou  comest,  earth  and  ocean, 
Shade  and  brightness,  rest  and  motion, 
Help  the  poor  man's  heart  to  pray. 

Sun- waked  forest, 
llird  that  soarost 
O"or  the  mute  empurpled  moor, 

Throstle's  song  that  stream-like  flowest. 
Wind  that  over  dew-drop  goest, 
Welcome  now  the  wo-worn  poor. 

Little  river, 
Young  for  ever, — 
Cloud,  gold-bright  with  thankful  glee, — 
Happy  woodbine,  gladly  weeping, — 
Gnat  within  the  wild-rose  keeping, — 
Oh  that  they  were  blest  as  ye  ! 

Sabbath  holy ! 
For  the  lowly. 
Paint  with  llowers  thy  glittering  sod. 
For  affliction's  sons  and  daughters, 
Bid  thy  mountains,  woods,  and  waters 
Pray  to  God,  the  poor  man's  God. 

From  the  fever 
Idle  never, 
Where,  on  Hope,  Want  bars  the  door ; — 
From  the  gloom  of  airless  alleys, 
Lead  thou  to  green  hills  and  valleys 
Plundered  England's  trampled  poor. 

Pale  young  mother, — 
Gasping  brother, — 
Sisters  toiling  in  despair, — 

Grief-bowed  sire,  that  life-long  diest, — 
White-lipped  child  that  sleeping  sighest, — 
Come  and  drink  the  light  and  air  ! 

Tyrants  curse  ye, 
While  they  nurse  ye, 
Life  for  deadliest  wrongs  to  pay  ; 
Yet,  O  Sabbath  !  bringing  gladness 
Unto  hearts  of  weary  sadness, 
.Still  thou  art  the  Poor  Man's  Day, 

Sabbath's  Father  ! 

Would'st  thou  ratlier 

Some  woujd  curse  than  all  be  blessed  ' 

If  thou  hate  not  fruit  ami  blossom. 

To  the  oppressor's  godless  bosom 

Bring  the  Poor  Man's  Day  of  Rest,— 


With  its  healing. 
With  his  feeling, 
With  his  humble  trustful  bliss. 

With  the  poor  man's  honest  kindness 
Bless  the  rich  man's  heart  of  blindness. 
Teach  him  what  Religion  is  ! 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  NATURE. 

I',y    DR.    CHAXriELD. 

3Iaii  can  build  nothing  worthy  o|f  his  Maker  : 

From  royal  Solomon's  stupendous  fane 
Down  to  the  humble  chapel  of  the  Quaker, 
All,  all  are  vain. 

The  wond'rous  world,  which  He  himself  created, 

Is  the  fit  temple  of  Creation's  lord  ; 
There  may  his  worship  best  be  celebrated. 
And  praises  poured. 

Its  altar,  earth  ;  its  roof,  the  sky  untainted  ; 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  lamps  that  give  it  light  ; 
And  clouds,  by  the  celestial  artist  painted. 
Its  pictures  bright ; 

Its  choir,  all  vocal  things,  whose  glad  devotion 

In  one  united  hymn  is  heaven-ward  sped ; 
The  thunder-peal,  the  winds,  the  deep-mouthed  ocean, 
Its  organ  dread; 

The  face  of  Nature  its  God-written  Bible, 

Which  all  mankind  may  study  and  explore, 
While  none  can  wrest,  interpolate,  or  libel 
Its  living  lore. 

Hence  learn  we  that  our  Maker — whose  affection 

Knows  no  distinction,  suffers  no  recall — 
Sheds  His  impartial  favour  and  protection 
Alike  on  all. 

Thus  by  Divine  example  do  we  gather 

That  every  race  should  love  alike  all  others  ; 
Christian,  Jew,  Pagan,  children  of  one  father — 
All,  all  are  brothers. 

O,  thou  most  visible;  but  unseen  teacher. 

Whose  finger  writes  its  lessons  on  our  sphere  ! 
0,  thou  most  audible,  but  unheard  preacher, 
Whose  sermons  clear 

.\re  seen  and  read  in  all  that  thou  performesf. 

Wilt  thou  look  down  and  bless,  if  when  I  kneel 
Apart  from  man-built  fanes,  I  feel  the  warm.est 
And  purest  zeal  ? 

If  in  the  temple  Thine  own  hand  hath  fashioned, 

'Neath  the  bright  sky,  by  lonely  stream  or  wood, 
I  pour  to  Thee,  with  willing  heart  impassiond, 
My  gratitude — 

If,  fearing  Thee,  I  love  thy  whole  creation. 

Keeping  my  bosom  undefiled  by  guilt. 
Wilt  thou  receive  and  bless  mine  adoration  ' 
I'hou  wilt !     Thou  wilt  ! 


V  O  1  C  J^  S   OF   T  11  K   T  R  U  E  -  1 1  ]■:  A  R  T  E  D  . 


137 


THE   SNOW-STORM. 

BV    TROrESSOR  WILSOX. 

la  sumuier  there  is  beauty  in  the  wildest  moors 
of  Scotland,  and  the  wayfaring  man  who  sits  down 
for  an  hour's  rest  beside  some  little  spring  that 
flows  unheard  through  the  brightened  moss  and 
water-cresses,  feels  his  weary  heart  revived  by  the 
silent,  serene,  and  solitary  prospect.  On  every  side 
sweet  sunny  spots  of  verdure  smile  towards  him 
from  among  the  melancholy  heather— unexpectedly 
in  the  solitude  a  stray  sheep,  it  may  be  with  its  lamb, 
starts  half  alarmed  at  his  motionless  figure — insects 
large,  bright,  and  beautiful,  come  careering  by  him 
through  the  desert  air — nor  does  the  Wild  want  its 
own  songsters,  the  gray  linnet,  fond  of  the  blooming 
furze,  and  now  and  then  the  lark  mounting  up  to 
Heaven  above  the  summits  of  the  green  pastoral  hills. 
During  such  a  sunshiny  hour,  the  lonely  cottage  on 
the  waste  seems  to  stand  in  a  paradise  ;  and  as  he 
rises  to  pursue  his  journey,  the  traveller  looks  back 
and  blesses  it  with  a  mingled  emotion  of  delight 
and  envy.  There,  thinks  he,  abide  the  children  of 
Innocence  and  Contentment,  the  two  most  benign 
spirits  that  watch  over  human  life.'  -v 

But  other  thoughts  arise  in  the  mind  of  him  who 
may  chance  to  journey  through  the  same  scene  in 
the  desolation  of  winter.  'J'he  cold  bleak  sky  girdles 
the  moor  as  with  a  belt  of  ice — life  is  frozen  in  air 
and  on  earth.  The  silence  is  not  of  repose  but  ex- 
tinction —  and  should  a  solitary  human  dwelling 
catch  his  eye  half-buried  in  the  snow,  he  is  sad  for 
the  sake  of  them  whose  destiny  it  is  to  abide  far 
from  the  cheerful  haunts  of  men,  shrouded  up  in 
melancholy,  by  poverty  held  in  thrall,  or  pining 
away  in  imvisited  and  untended  disease. 

But,  in  good  truth,  the  heart  of  human  life  is  but 
imperfectly  discovered  from  its  countenance ;  and 
before  we  can  know  what  the  summer,  or  what  the 
winter  yields  for  enjoyment  or  trial  to  our  country's 
peasantry,  we  must  have  conversed  with  them  in 
their  fields  and  by  their  firesides  ;  and  made  our- 
selves acquainted  with  the  powerful  ministry  of  the 
seasons,  not  over  those  objects  alone  that  feed  the 
eye  and  the  imagination,  but  over  all  the  incidents, 
occupations,  and  events,  that  modify  or  constitute 
the  existence  of  the  poor. 

I  have  a  short  and  simple  story  to  tell  of  the  win- 
ter life  of  the  moorland  cottager — a  story  but  of  one 
evening — with  few  events  and  no  signal  catastro- 
phe— but  which  may  haply  please  those  hearts  whose 
delight  it  is  to  think  on  the  humble  under-plots  that 
are  carrying  on  in  the  great  Drama  of  Life. 

Two  cottagers,  husband  and  wife,  were  sitting  by 
their  cheerful  peat-fire  one  winter  evening,  in  a 
small  lonely  hut  on  the  edge  of  a  wide  moor,  at 
some  miles  distance  from  any  other  habitation. 
There  had  been,  at  one  time,  several  huts  of  the 
same  kind  erected  close  together,  and  inhabited  by 
families  of  the  poorest  class  of  day-laboures,  who 
18 


found  work  among  the  distant  farms,  and  at  night 
returned  to  dwellings  which  were  rent-free,  with 
their  little  garden  won  from  the  waste.  But  one 
family  after  another  had  dwindled  away,  and  the 
turf-built  huts  had  all  fallen  into  ruins,  except  one 
that  had  always  stood  in  the  centre  of  this  little  soli- 
tary village,  with  its  summer  walls  covered  with 
the  richest  honey-suckles,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
brightest  of  all  the  gardens.  It  alone  now  sent  up 
its  smoke  into  the  clear  winter  sky — and  its  little 
end  window,  now  lighted  up,  was  the  only  ground 
star  that  shone  towards  the  belated  traveller,  if  any 
such  ventured  to  cross,  on  a  winter  night,  a  scene 
so  dreary  and  desolate.  The  affairs  of  the  small 
household  were  all  arranged  for  the  night.  The 
little  rough  poney  that  had  drawn  in  a  sledge,  from 
the  heart  of  the  hlack-Moss,  the  fuel  by  whose  blaze 
the  cotters  were  now  sitting  cheerily,  and  the  little 
Highland  cow,  whose  milk  enabled  them  to  live, 
were  standing  amicably  together,  under  cover  of  a 
rude  shed,  of  which  one  side  was  formed  by  the 
peat-stack,  and  which  was  at  once  byre,  and  stable, 
and  hen-voast.  Within,  the  clock  ticked  cheerfully 
as  the  fire-light  reached  its  old  oak-wood  case  across 
the  yellow-sanded  floor — and  a  small  round  table 
stood  between,  covered  with  a  snow-white  cloth,  on 
which  were  milk  and  oat-cakes,  the  morning,  mid- 
day, and  evening  meal  of  these  frugal  and  contented 
cotters.  The  spades  and  the  mattocks  of  the  labour- 
er were  collected  into  one  corner,  and  showed  that 
the  succeeding  day  was  the  blessed  Sabbath — while 
on  the  wooden  chimney  piece  was  seen  lying  an 
open  Bible  ready  for  family  worship. 

The  father  and  the  mother  were  sitting  together 
without  opening  their  lips,  but  with  their  hearts 
overflowing  with  happiness,  for  on  this  Saturday- 
night  they  were,  every  minute,  expecting  to  hear  at 
the  latch  the  hand  of  their  only  daughter,  a  maiden 
of  about  fifteen  years,  who  was  at  service  with  a 
farmer  over  the  hills.  This  dutiful  child  was,  as 
they  knew,  to  bring  home  to  them  "her  sair-worn 
penny  fee,"  a  pittance  which,  in  the  beauty  of  her 
girlhood,  she  earned  singing  at  her  work,  and  which 
in  the  benignity  of  that  sinless  time,  she  would  pour 
with  tears  into  the  bosoms  she  so  dearly  loved. 
Forty  shillings  a  year  were  all  the  wages  of  sweet 
Hannah  Lee — but  though  she  wore  at  her  labour  a 
tortoise  shell  comb  in  her  auburn  hair,  and  though 
in  the  kirk  none  were  more  becomingly  arrayed 
than  she,  one  half,  at  least,  of  her  earnings  were  to 
be  reserved  for  the  holiest  of  all  purposes,  and  her 
kind  innocent  heart  was  gladdened  when  she  looked 
on  the  little  purse  that  was,  on  the  long-expected 
Saturday-night,  to  be  taken  from  her  bosom,  and 
put,  with  a  blessing,  into  the  hand  of  her  father, 
now  growing  old  at  his  daily  toils. 

Of  such  a  child  the  happy  cotters  were  thinking 
in  their  silence.  And  well  indeed  might  they  be  call- 
ed happy.     It  is  at  that  sweet  season  that  filial  piety 


138 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


is  most  beautiful.  Their  own  Hannah  had  just  out- 
grown the  mere  unthinking  gladness  of  childhood, 
but  had  not  yet  reached  that  time,  when  inevitable 
selfishness  mixes  with  the  pure  current  of  love. 
She  had  begun  to  think  on  what  her  aflcctionate 
heart  had  left  so  long:  and  when  she  looked  on  the 
pale  face  and  bending  frame  of  her  mother,  on  the 
deepening  wrinkles  and  whitening  hairs  other  father, 
often  would  she  lie  weeping  for  their  sakes  on  her 
midnight  bed — and  wish  that  she  were  beside  them 
as  they  slept,  that  she  might  kneel  down  and  kiss 
them,  and  mention  their  names  over  and  over  again 
in  her  prayer.  The  parents  whom  before  she  had 
only  loved,  her  expanding  heart  now  also  vene- 
rated. With  gushing  tenderness  was  now  mingled 
a  holy  fear  and  an  awful  reverence.  She  had  dis- 
cerned the  relation  in  which  she,  an  only  child, 
stood  to  her  poor  parents,  now  that  they  were  get- 
ting old,  and  there  was  not  a  passage  in  Scripture 
that  spake  of  parents  or  of  children,  from  Joseph  sold 
into  slavery,  to  Mary  weeping  below  the  Cross,  that 
was  not  written,  never  to  be  obliterated,  on  her 
uncorrupted  heart. 

The  father  rose  from  his  seat,  and  went  to  the 
door,  to  look  out  into  the  night.  The  stars  were  in 
thousands — and  the  full  moon  was  risen.  It  was 
almost  light  as  day,  and  the  snow,  that  seemed  en- 
crusted with  diamonds,  was  so  hardened  by  the  frost, 
that  his  daughter's  homeward  feet  would  leave  no 
mark  on  its  surface.  He  had  been  toiling  all  day 
among  the  distant  Castle- woods,  and,  stiff  and  wea- 
ried as  he  now  was,  he  was  almost  tempted  to  go  to 
meet  his  child — but  his  wife's  kind  voice  dissuaded 
him,  and  returning  to  the  fireside,  they  began  to  talk 
of  her,  whose  image  had  been  so  long  passing  before 
them  in  their  silence. 

"She  is  growing  up  to  be  a  bonny  lassie,"  said 
the  mother  ;  "  her  long  and  weary  attendance  on 
me  during  my  fever  last  spring,  kept  her  down 
awhile — but  now  she  is  sprouting  fast  and  fair  as  a 
lily,  and  may  the  blessing  of  God  be  as  dew  and  as 
sunshine  to  our  sweet  flower  all  the  days  she  bloom- 
eth  upon  this  earth."  "  Ay,  Agnes,"  replied  the 
father,  "  we  are  not  very  old  yet — though  we  are 
getting  older — and  a  few  years  will  bring  her  to 
woman's  estate,  and  what  thing  on  this  earth,  think 
ye,  human  or  brute,  would  ever  think  of  injuring 
her?  Why,  I  was  speaking  about  her  yesterday  to 
the  minister  as  he  was  riding  by,  and  he  told  me  that 
none  answered  at  the  examination  in  the  Kirk  so 
well  as  Hannah.  Poor  thing — I  well  think  she  has 
all  the  Bible  by  heart — indeed,  she  has  read  but 
littje  else — only  some  stories, — too  true  ones,  of 
the  blessed  martyrs,  and  some  o'  the  auld  songs  o' 
Scotland,  in  which  there  is  nothing  but  what  is 
good,  and  which,  to  be  sure,  she  sings,  God  bless 
her,  sweeter  than  any  laverock."  "  Ay — were  we 
both  to  die  this  very  night  she  would  be  happy. 
Not  that  she  would  forget  us  all  the  days  of  her  life 


But  have  you  not  seen,  husband,   that  God  always 
makes  the  orphan  happy?     None  so  little  lonesome 
as  they  !     They   come    to  make  friends  o'   all  the 
bonny  and  sweet  things  in  the  world,  around  them, 
and  all  the  kind  hearts  in  the  world  make  o'  them. 
They  come  to  know  that  God  is  more  especially 
the  Father  o'  them  on  earth  whose  parents  he  has 
taken  up  to  heaven— and  therefore  it  is  that  they, 
for  whom   so  many  have   fears,  fear  not  at  all  for 
themselves,  but  go  dancing  and  singing  along  like 
children  whose  parents  are  both  alive  !     Would  it 
not  be  so  with   our  dear  Hannah  ?     So  douce  and 
thoughtful  a  child — but  never   sad  nor  miserable — 
ready,  it  is  true,  to  shed  tears  for  little,  but  as  ready 
to  dry  them  up  and  break  out  into  smiles  I — I  know 
not  why  it  is,  husband,    but  this  night  my  heart 
warms  towards  her  beyond  usual.  The  moon  and  stars 
are  at  this  moment  looking  down  upon  her,  and  she 
looking  up  to  them,  as  she  is  glinting  homewards  over 
the  snow.     I  wish  she  were  but  here,  and  taking  the 
comb  out  o'  her  bonny  hair  and  letting  it  fall  down  in 
clusters  before  the  fire,  to  melt  away  the  cranreuch.'' 
While   the    parents  were  thus   speaking  of  their 
daughter,  a  loud  sugh  of  wind  came  suddenly  over 
the  cottage,  and  the  leafless  ash  tree,  under  whose 
shelter  it  stood,  creaked  and  groaned  dismally  as  it 
passed  by.     The  father  started  up,  and  going  again 
to  the  door,  saw  that  a  sudden  change  had  come 
over  the  face  of  the  night.     The  moon  had  nearly 
disappeared,   and  was  just  visible  in  a  dim,  yellow, 
glimmering  den  in  the  sky.     All  the  remote  stars 
were  obscured,  and  only  one  or  two  faintly  seemed 
in  a   sky  that  half  an  hour  before   was  perfectly 
cloudless,  but  that  was  now  driving  with  rack,  and 
mist,  and  sleet,  the  whole  atmosphere  being  in  com- 
motion.    He  stood  for  a  single  moment  to  observe 
the  direction  of  this  unforeseen  storm,    and    then 
hastily  asked  for  his  staff".      "  I  thought  I  had  been 
more  weather-wise. — A  storm  is  coming  down  from 
the  Cairnbraehawse,  and  we  shall  have  nothing  but 
a  wild  night."      He  then  whistled  on  his  dog— an 
old  sheep-dog,  too  old  for  his  former  labors — and  set 
off"  to  meet  his  daughter— who  might  then,  for  ought 
he  knew,  be  crossing  the  Black-moss.     The  mother 
accompanied  her  husband  to  the  door,  and  took  a  long 
frightened  look  at  the  angry  sky.     As  she  kept  gaz- 
ing, it  became   still  more  terrible.     The  last  shred 
of  blue  was  extinguished— the  wind  went  whirling 
in  roaring  eddies,  and  great  flakes  of  snow  circled 
about  in  the  middle  air,  whether  drifted  up  from  the 
ground,  or  driven  down  from  the  clouds,  the  fear- 
stricken  mother  knew  not,  but  .she  at  last  knew,  that 
it  seemed  a  night  of  danger,   despair,  and    death. 
"  Lord  have  mercy  on  us,  James,  what  will  become 
of  our  poor  bairn  1"      But  her  husband  heard  not  her 
words,  for  he  was  already  out  of  sight  in  the  snow- 
storm, and  she  was  left  to  the  terror  of  her  own  sou) 
in  that  lonesome  cottage. 

T>ittlc  Hannah  T-ee  had   left  her  master's  house. 


VOICES    OF     THE  TRUE- MEARTED. 


139 


soon  as  the  rim  of  the  great  moon  was  seen  by  her 
eyes,  that  had  been  long  anxiously  watching  it  from 
the  window,  rising,  like  a  joyful  dream,  over  the 
gloomy  mountain  tops;  and  all  by  herself  she  trip- 
ped along  beneath  the  beauty  of  the  silent  heaven. 
Still  as  she  kept  ascending  and  descending  the  knolls 
that  lay  in  the  bosom  of  the  glen,  she  sung  to  her- 
self a  song,  a  hymn,  or  a  psalm,  without  the  accom- 
paniment of  the  streams,  now  all  silent  in  the  frost ; 
and  ever  and  anon  she  stopped  to  try  to  count  the 
stars  that  lay  in  some  more  beautiful  part  of  the  sky, 
or  gazed  on  the  constellations  that  she  knew,  and 
called  them  in  her  joy,  by  the  names  they  bore 
among  the  shepherds.  'J'here  were  none  to  hear  her 
voice,  or  see  her  smiles,  but  the  ear  and  eye  of  Pro- 
vidence. As  on  she  glided,  and  took  her  looks  from 
heaven,  she  saw  her  own  little  fireside — her  parents 
waiting  for  her  arrival — the  Bible  opened  for  wor- 
ship— her  own  little  room  kept  so  neatly  for  her, 
with  its  mirror  hanging  by  the  window,  in  which  to 
braid  her  hair  by  the  morning  light — her  bed  pre- 
pared for  her  by  her  mother's  hand — the  primroses 
in  the  garden  peeping  through  the  snow — old  Tray, 
who  ever  welcomed  her  home  with  his  dim-  white 
eyes — the  poney  and  the  cow  ;  friends  all,  and  in- 
mates of  that  happy  household.  So  stepped  she 
along,  while  the  snow  diamonds  glittered  around 
her  feet,  and  the  frost  wove  a  wreath  of  lucid  pearls 
round  her  forehead. 

She  had  now  reached  the  edge  of  the  Black-moss, 
which  lay  half  way  between  her  master's  and  her 
father's  dwelling,  when  she  heard  a  loud  noise  com- 
ing down  Glen-Scrae,  and  in  a  few  seconds  she  felt 
on  her  face  some  flakes  of  snow.  She  looked  up  the 
glen,  and  saw  the  snow-storm  coming  down,  fast  as 
a  flood.  She  felt  no  fears  ;  but  she  ceased  her  song  ; 
and  had  there  been  a  human  eye  to  look  upon  her 
there,  it  might  have  seen  a  shadow  on  her  face.  She 
continued  her  course,  and  felt  bolder  and  bolder  every 
step  that  brought  her  nearer  to  her  parent's  house. 
But  the  snow  storm  had  now  reached  the  Black- 
moss,  and  the  broad  line  of  light  that  had  lain  in  the 
direction  of  her  home,  was  soon  swallowed  up,  and 
the  child  was  in  utter  darkness.  She  saw  nothing 
but  the  flakes  of  snow,  interminably  intermingled, 
and  furiously  wafted  in  the  air,  close  to  her  head  ; 
she  heard  nothing  but  one  wild,  fierce,  fitful  howl. 
The  cold  became  intense,  and  her  little  feet  and 
hands  were  fast  being  benumbed  into  insensibility. 

"  It  is  a  fearful  change,"  muttered  the  child  to  her- 
self;  but  still  she  did  not  fear,  for  she  had  been  born 
in  a  moorland  cottage,  and  lived  all  her  days  among 
the  hardships  of  the  hills.  •<  What  will  become  of 
the  poor  sheep  !"  thought  she, — but  still  she  scarce- 
ly thought  of  her  own  danger,  for  innocence,  and 
youth,  and  joy,  are  slow  to  think  of  aught  evil  be. 
falling  themselves,  and  thinking  benignly  of  all  liv- 
ing things,  forget  their  own  fear  in   tlieir  pity  for 


others'  sorrow.  At  last  she  could  no  longer  dis- 
cern a  single  mark  on  the  snow,  either  of  human 
steps,  or  of  sheep-track,  or  the  foot-print  of  a  wild 
fowl.  Suddenly,  too,  she  felt  out  of  breath  and  ex- 
hausted,—and  shedding  tears  for  herself  at  last,  sank 
down  in  the  snow. 

It  was  now  that  her  heart  began  to  quake  with  fear. 
She  remembered  stories  of  shejiherds  lost  in  the 
snow,— of  a  mother  and  child  frozen  to  death  on 
that  very  moor, — and,  in  a  moment,  she  knew  that 
she  was  to  die.  Bitterly  did  the  poor  child  weep, 
for  death  was  terrible  to  her,  who,  though  poor,  en- 
joyed the  bright  little  world  of  youth  and  innocence. 
The  skies  of  heaven  were  dearer  than  she  knew  to 
her,— so  were  the  flowers  of  earth.  She  had  been 
happy  at  her  work, — hap])y  in  her  sleep, — happy  in 
the  kirk  on  Sabbath.  A  thousand  thoughts  had  the 
solitary  child, — and  in  her  own  heart  was  a  spring 
of  happiness,  pure  and  undisturbed  as  any  fount  that 
sparkles  unseen  all  the  year  through  in  some  quiet 
nook  among  the  pastoral  hills.  But  now  there  was 
to  be  an  end  of  all  this, — she  was  to  be  frozen  to 
death— and  lie  there  till  the  thaw  might  come ;  and 
then  her  father  would  find  her  body,  and  carry  it 
away  to  be  buried  in  the  kirk-yard. 

The  tears  were  frozen  on  her  cheeks  as  soon  as 
shed,— and  scarcely  had  her  little  hands  strength  to 
clasp  themselves  together,  as  the  thought  of  an  over- 
ruling and  merciful  Lord  came  across  her  heart. 
Then,  indeed,  the  fears  of  this  religious  child  were 
calmed,  and  she  heard  without  terror  the  plover's 
wailing  cry,  and  the  deep  boom  of  the  bittern  sound- 
ing in  the  moss.  "  I  will  repeat  the  Lord's  Prayer." 
And  drawing  her  plaid  more  closely  around  her,  she 
whispered,  beneath  its  inefl^ectual  cover :  "  Our 
Father  which  art  in  Heaven,  hallowed  be  thy  name, — 
thy  kingdom  come, — thy  will  be  done  on  earth  as  it 
is  in  Heaven."  Had  human  aid  been  within  fifty 
yards,  it  could  have  been  of  no  avail— eye  could  not 
see  her— ear  could  not  hear  her  in  that  howling  dark- 
ness. But  that  low  prayer  was  heard  in  the  centre 
of  eternity,— and  that  little  sinless  child  was  lying 
in  the  snow,  beneath  the  all-seeing  eye  of  God. 

The  maiden  having  prayed  to  her  Father  in  Hea 
ven — then  thought  of  her  father  on  earth.  Alas ! 
they  were  not  far  separated  !  The  father  was  lying 
but  a  short  distance  from  his  child  ;  he  too  had  sunk 
down  in  the  drifting  snow,  after  having,  in  less  than 
an  hour,  exhausted  all  the  strength  of  fear,  pity,  hope, 
despair,  and  resignation,  that  could  rise  in  a  father's 
heart  blindly  seeking  to  rescue  his  only  child  from 
death,  thinking  that  one  desperate  exertion  might 
enable  them  to  peri-sh  in  each  other's  arms.  There 
they  lay,  within  a  stone's  throw  of  each  other,  while 
a  huge  snowdrift  was  every  moment  piling  itself 
up  into  a  more  insurmountable  barrier  between  the 
dying  parent  and  his  dying  child. 

There  was  all  tliis  wliile  a  blazing  fire  in  the  cot- 


140 


VOICES    OF   T  H  ]^,    T  R  U  F.  -  H  E  A  R  T  E  D  , 


tage — a  white-spread  table— and  beds  prepared  for  i 

the  family  to  lie  down  in  peace.  Yet  was  she  who 
sat  therein  more  to  be  pitied  than  the  old  man  and 
the  child  stretched  upon  the  snow.  "  1  will  not  go 
to  seek  them — that  would  be  tempting  Providence — 
and  wilfully  putting  out  the  lamp  of  life.  No!  I 
will  abide  here  and  pray  tor  their  souls!"  'J'hen, 
as  she  knelt  down,  looked  she  at  the  useless  fire 
burning  away  so  cheerfully,  when  all  she  loved 
might  be  dying  of  cold — and,  unable  to  bear  the 
thought,  she  shrieked  out  a  prayer,  as  if  she  miglit 
pierce  the  sky  to  the  very  throne  of  God,  and  send 
with  it  her  own  miserable  soul  to  plead  before  him 
for  the  deliverance  of  her  child  and  husband.  She 
then  fell  down  in  blessed  forgetfulness  of  all  trouble, 
in  the  midst  of  the  solitary  cheerfulness  of  that  bright- 
burning  hearth — and  the  Bible,  which  she  had  been 
trying  to  read  in  the  pauses  of  her  agony,  remained 
clasped  in  her  hands. 

Hannah  Lee  had  been  a  servant  for  more  than  six 
months — and  \t  was  not  to  be  thought  that  she  was 
not  beloved  in  her  master's  family.  Soon  after  she 
had  left  the  house,  her  master's  son,  a  youth  of  about 
eighteen  years,  who  had  been  among  the  hills  look- 
ing after  the  sheep,  came  home,  and  was  disappoint- 
ed to  find  that  he  had  lost  an  opportunity  of  accom- 
panying Hannah  part  of  the  way  to  her  father's  cot- 
tage. But  the  hour  of  eight  had  gone  by,  and  not 
even  the  company  of  young  William  Grieve  ^ould  in- 
duce the  kind-hearted  daughter  to  delay  setting  out 
on  her  journey  a  few  minutes  beyond  the  time  pro- 
mised to  her  parents.  "I  do  not  like  the  night," 
said  William — "there  will  be  a  fresh  fall  of  snow 
soon,  or  the  witch  of  Glen  Scrae  is  a  liar,  for  a  snow- 
cloud  is  hanging  o'er  the  Birch-tree-lin,  and  it  may 
be  down  to  the  Black-moss  as  soon  as  Hannah  Lee." 
So  he  called  his  two  sheep-dogs  that  had  taken  their 
place  under  the  long  table  before  the  window,  and 
set  out,  half  in  joy,  half  in  fear,  to  overtake  Hannah, 
and  see  her  safely  across  the  Black-moss. 

The  snow  began  to  drift  so  fast,  that  before  he  had 
reached  the  head  of  the  glen,  there  was  nothing  to 
be  seen  but  a  little  bit  of  the  wooden  rail  of  the 
bridge  across  the  ^auchbnrn.  William  Grieve  was 
the  most  active  shepherd  in  a  large  pastoral  parish — 
he  had  often  })assed  the  night  among  the  wintry  hills 
for  the  sake  of  a  few  sheep,  and  all  the  snow  that 
ever  fell  from  Heaven  would  not  have  made  him 
turn  back  when  Hannah  Lee  was  before  him ;  and  as 
his  terrified  heart  told  him,  in  imminent  danger  of 
being  lost. — As  he  advanced,  he  felt  that  it  was  no 
longer  a  walk  of  love  or  friendship,  for  which  he  had 
been  glad  of  an  excuse.  Death  stared  him  in  tlie 
face,  and  his  young  soul,  now  beginning  to  feel  all 
the  passions  of  youth,  was  filled  with  frenzy.  He  had 
seen  Hannah  every  day — at  the  fireside — at  work — 
in  the  kirk — on  holidays — at  prayers — bringing  sup- 
per to  his  aged  parents — smiling  and  singing  about 
the  liou.si!  from  morning  till  night.      She  had  often 


brought  his  own  meal  to  him  among  the  hills — and 
he  now  found  that  though  he  had  never  talked  to  her 
about  love,  except  smilingly  and  playfully,  that  he 
loved  her  beyond  father  or  mother,  or  his  own  soul. 
"  I  will  save  thee,  Hannah,"  he  cried  with  a  loud  sob, 
'<  or  lie  down  beside  thee  in  the  snow — and  we  will 
die  together  in  our  youth."  A  wild  whistling  wind 
went  by  him,  and  the  snow-flakes  whirled  so  fiercely 
around  his  head,  that  he  staggered  on  for  a  while  in 
utter  blindness.  He  knew  the  path  that  Hannah  must 
have  taken,  and  went  forwards  shouting  aloud,  and 
stopping  every  twenty  yards  to  listen  for  a  voice.  He 
sent  f  is  well-trained  dogs  over  the  snow  in  all  direc- 
tionr — repeating  to  them  her  name,  "  Hannah  Lee," 
that  the  dumb  animals  might,  in  their  sagacity, 
know  for  whom  they  were  searching ;  and  as  they 
looked  up  in  his  face,  and  set  off  to  scour  the  moor, 
he  almost  believed  that  they  knew  his  meaning, 
(and  it  is  probable  they  did.)  and  were  eager  to  find 
in  her  bewilderment  the  kind  maiden  by  whose  hand 
they  had  so  often  been  fed.  Often  went  they  off 
into  the  darkness,  and  as  often  returned,  but  their 
looks  showed  that  every  quest  had  been  in  vain. 
Meanwhile  the  snow  was  of  a  fearful  depth,  and 
falling  without  intermission  or  diminution.  Had 
the  young  shepherd  been  thus  alone,  walking  acrosss 
the  moor  on  his  ordinary  business,  it  is  probable  that 
he  might  have  been  alarmed  for  his  own  safety — nay, 
that,  in  spite  of  all  his  strength  and  agility,  he  might 
have  sunk  down  beneath  the  inclemency  of  the  night 
and  perished.  But  now  the  passion  of  his  soul  car- 
ried him  with  supernatural  strength  along,  and  ex- 
tricated him  from  wreath  and  pitfall.  Still  there 
was  no  trace  of  poor  Hannah  Lee — and  one  of  his 
dogs  at  last  came  close  to  his  feet, worn  out  entirely, 
and  afraid  to  leave  its  master — while  the  other  was 
mute,  and,  as  the  shepherd  thought,  probably  unable 
to  force  its  way  out  of  some  hollow  or  through  some 
floundering  drift.  Then  he  all  at  once  knew  that 
Hannah  Lee  was  dead — and  dashed  himself  down  in 
the  snow  in  a  fit  of  passion.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  the  youth  had  ever  been  sorely  tried — all  his 
hidden  and  unconscious  love  for  the  fair  lost  girl  had 
flowed  up  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart — and  at  once 
the  sole  object  which  had  blessed  his  life  and  made 
him  the  happiest  of  the  happy,  was  taken  away  and 
cruelly  destroyed — so  that  sullen,  wrathful,  baffled, 
and  despairing,  there  he  lay  cursing  his  existence, 
and  in  too  great  agony  to  think  of  prayer.  "  God," 
he  then  thought,  "  has  forsaken  me,  and  why  should 
he  think  on  me,  when  he  suffers  one  so  good  and 
beautiful  as  Hannah  to  be  frozen  to  death  ?"  God 
thought  both  of  him  and  Hannah — and  through  his 
infinite  mercy  forgave  the  sinner  in  his  wild  turbu- 
lence of  passion.  William  Grieve  had  never  gone 
to  bed  without  joining  in  prayer — and  he  revered 
the  Sabbath-day  and  kept  it  holy.  Much  is  forgiven 
to  the  human  heart,  by  him  who  so  fearfully  framed 
it ;  and  God  is  not  slow  to  pardon    the   love  which 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


141 


one  human  being  bears  to  another,  in  his  frailty — 
even  though  that  love  forget  or  arraign  his  own  un- 
sleeping providence.  His  voice  has  told  us  to  love 
one  another — and  William  loved  Hannah  in  simpli. 
city,  innocence,  and  truth.  That  she  should  perish 
was  a  thought  so  dreadful,  that,  in  its  agony,  God 
seemed  a  ruthless  being — >'  blow — blow — blow — and 
drift  us  up  for  ever — we  cannot  be  far  asunder — O 
Hannah— Hannah— think  ye  not  that  the  fearful  God 
has  forsaken  us  ?" 

As  the  boy  groaned  these  words  passionately 
through  his  quivering  lips,  there  was  a  sudden  low- 
ness  in  the  air,  and  he  heard  the  barking  of  his  ab- 
sent dog,  while  the  one  at  his  feet  hurried  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  sound,  and  soon  loudly  joined  the 
cry.  It  was  not  a  bark  of  surprise— or  anger — or 
fear — but  of  recognition  and  love.  William  sprung 
up  from  his  bed  in  the  snow,  and  with  his  heart 
knocking  at  his  bosom  even  to  sickness,  he  rushed 
headlong  through  the  drifts,  with  a  giant's  strength, 
and  fell  down  half  dead  with  joy  and  terror  beside 
the  body  of  Hannah  Lee. 

But  he  soon  recovered  from  that  fit,  and  lifting 
the  cold  corpse  in  his  arms,  he  kissed  her  lips,  and 
her  cheeks,  and  her  forehead,  and  her  closed  eyes, 
til],  as  he  kept  gazing  on  her  face  in  utter  despair, 
her  head  fell  back  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  long  deep  sigh 
came  from  her  inmost  bosom.  "She  is  yet  alive, 
thank  God!"' — and  as  that  expression  left  his  lips 
for  the  first  time  that  night,  he  felt  a  pang  of  re- 
morse: "  I  said,  0  God,  that  thou  hadst  forsaken  us — 
I  am  not  worthy  to  be  saved  ;  but  let  not  this  maiden 
perish,  for  the  sake  of  her  parents,  who  have  no  other 
child."  The  distracted  youth  prayed  to  God  .with 
the  same  earnestness  as  if  he  had  been  beseeching  a 
fellow-creature,  in  whose  hand  was  the  power  of 
life  and  of  death.  The  presence  of  the  Great  Being 
was  felt  by  him  in  the  dark  and  howling  wild,  and 
strength  was  imparted  to  him  as  to  a  deliverer.  He 
bore  along  the  fair  child  in  his  arms,  even  as  if  she 
had  been  a  lamb.  The  snow-drift  blew  not — the 
wind  fell  dead — a  sort  of  glimmer,  like  that  of  an 
upbreaking  and  disparting  storm,  gathered  about 
him — his  dogs  barked  and  jumped,  and  burrowed 
joyfully  in  the  snow — and  the  youth,  strong  in  sud- 
den hope,  exclaimed,  "  With  the  blessing  of  God, 
who  has  not  deserted  us  in  our  sore  distress,  will  I 
carry  thee,  Hannah,  in  my  arms,  and  lay  thee  down 
alive  in  the  house  of  thy  father."  At  this  moment 
there  were  no  stars  in  heaven,  but  she  opened  her 
dim  blue  eyes  upon  him  in  whose  bosom  she  was 
unconsciously  lying,  and  said,  as  in  a  dream,  "  Send 
the  riband  that  ties  up  my  hair,  as  a  keep- sake  to 
William  Grieve."  "She  thinks  that  she  is  on  her 
death-bed,  and  forgets  not  the  son  of  her  master.  It 
is  the  voice  of  God  that  tells  nae  she  will  not  die, 
and  that,  under  His  grace,  I  shall  be  her  deliverer." 

The  short-lived  rage  of  the  storm ^was  soon  over, 
and  William  could  attend  to  the  beloved  being  on 


his  bosom.  The  warmth  of  his  heart  seemed  to  in- 
fuse life  into  hers;  and  as  he  gently  placed  her  feet 
on  the  snow,  till  he  muflled  ii.cr  up  in  his  plaid,  as 
well  as  in  her  own,  she  made  an  eflort  to  stand,  and 
with  extreme  perplexity  and  bewilderment  faintly 
incjuired,  where  she  was,  and  what  fearful  misfortune 
had  befallen  them  ?  She  was,  however,  too  weak 
to  walk  ;  and  as  her  young  master  carried  her  along, 
she  murmured,  "  O  William  !  what  if  my  father  be 
in  the  moor  ? — For  if  you,  who  need  care  so  little 
about  me,  have  come  hither,  as  I  suppose,  to  save 
my  life,  you  may  be  sure  that  my  father  sat  not 
within  doors  during  the  storm."  As  she  spoke  it 
was  calm  below,  but  the  wind  was  still  alive  in  the 
upper  air,  and  cloud,  rack,  mist,  and  sleet,  were  all 
driving  about  in  the  sky.  Out  shone  for  a  moment 
the  pallid  and  ghostly  moon,  through  a  rent  in  the 
gloom,  and  by  that  uncertain  light,  came  staggering 
forward  the  figure  of  a  man.  "  Father — Father," 
cried  Hannah — and  his  gray  hairs  were  already  on 
her  cheek.  The  barking  of  the  dogs  and  the  shout- 
ing of  the  young  shepherd  had  struck  his  ear,  as  the 
sleep  of  death  was  stealing  over  him,  and  with  the 
last  effort  of  benumbed  nature,  he  had  roused  him- 
self from  that  fatal  torpor,  and  pressed  through  the 
snow-wreath  that  had  separated  him  from  his  child. 
As  yet  they  knew  not  of  the  danger  each  had  en. 
dured, — but  each  judged  of  the  other's  sufferings 
from  their  own,  and  father  and  daughter  regarded 
one  another  as  creatures  rescued,  and  hardly  yet 
rescued,  from  death. 

But  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  the  three  human  beings 
who  loved  each  other  so  well,  and  now  feared  not 
to  cross  the  moor  in  safety,  were,  as  they  thought, 
on  their  death-beds.  Deliverance  now  shone  upon 
them  all  like  a  gentle  fire,  dispelling  that  pleasant 
but  deadly  drowsiness  ;  and  the  old  man  was  soon 
able  to  assist  V\  illiam  Grieve  in  leading  Hannah 
Lee  through  the  snow.  Her  colour  and  her  warmth 
returned,  and  her  lover — for  so  might  he  well  now  be 
called — felt  her  heart  gently  beating  against  his  side. 
Filled  as  that  heart  was  with  gratitude  to  God,  joy 
in  her  deliverance,  love  to  her  father,  and  purest 
affection  for  her  master's  son,  never  before  had  the 
innocent  maiden  known  what  was  happiness — and 
never  more  was  she  to  forget  it.  The  night  was 
now  almost  calm,  and  fast  returning  to  its  former 
beauty — when  the  party  saw  the  first  twinkle  of  the 
fire  through  the  low  window  of  the  Cottage  of  the 
Moor.  They  soon  vi-ere  at  the  garden  gate — and  to 
relieve  the  heart  of  the  wife  and  mother  within,  they 
talked  loudly  and  cheerfully — naming  each  other 
familiarly,  and  laughing  between,  like  persons  who 
had  known  neither  danger  nor  distress. 

No  voice  answered  from  within — no  footstep 
came  to  the  door,  which  stood  open  as  when  the 
father  had  left  it  in  his  fear,  and  now  he  thought 
with  affright  that  his  wife,  feeble  as  she  was,  had 
been  unable  to  support  the  loneliness,  and  had  fol- 


112 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


lowed  him  out  into  the  night,  never  to  be  brought 
liome  alive.  As  they  bore  Hannah  into  the  house, 
this  fear  gave  way  to  worse,  lor  there  upon  the  hard 
clay  floor  lay  the  mother  upon  her  lace,  as  if  mur- 
dered by  some  savage  blow.  She  was  in  the  same 
deadly  swoon  into  which  she  had  fallen  on  her  bus. 
band's  departure  three  hours  before.  The  old  man 
raised  her  up,  and  her  pulse  was  still — so  was  her 
heart — her  face  pale  and  sunken — and  her  body  cold 
as  ice.  <<  I  have  recovered  a  daughter,"  said  the  old 
man,  "  but  I  have  lost  a  wife  ;"  and  he  carried  her, 
with  a  groan,  to  the  bed,  on  which  he  laid  her  life- 
less  body.  The  sight  was  too  much  for  Hannah, 
worn  out  as  she  was,  and  who  hud  hitherto  been 
able  to  support  herself  in  the  delightful  expectation 
of  gladdening  her  mother's  heart  by  her  safe  arrival. 
She,  too,  now  swooned  away,  and,  as  she  was  placed 
on  the  bed  beside  her  mother,  it  seemed  indeed,  that 
death,  disappointed  of  his  prey  on  the  wild  moor, 
had  seized  it  in  the  cottage,  and  by  the  fire-side. 
The  husband  knelt  down  by  the  bed-side,'  and  held 
his  wife's  icy  hand  in  his,  while  William  Grieve, 
appalled  and  awe-stricken,  hung  over  his  Hannah, 
and  inwardly  implored  God  that  the  night's  wild 
adventure  might  not  have  so  ghastly  an  end.  But 
Hannah's  young  heart  soon  began  once  more  to 
beat — and  soon  as  she  came  to  her  recollection,  she 
rose  up  with  a  face  whiter  than  ashes,  and  free  from 
all  smiles,  as  if  none  had  ever  played  there,  and 
joined  her  father  and  young  master  in  their  efforts 
to  restore  her  mother  to  life. 

It  was  the  mercy  of  God  that  had  struck  her  down 
to  the  earth,  insensible  to  the  shrieking  winds,  and 
the  fears  that  would  otherwise  have  killed  her. 
Three  hours  of  that  wild  storm  had  passed  over  her 
head,  and  she  heard  nothing  more  than  if  she  had 
been  asleep  in  a  breathless  night  of  the  summer  dew. 
Not  even  a  dream  had  touched  her  brain,  and  when 
she  opened  her  eyes,  which,  as  she  thought,  had  been 
but  a  moment  shut,  she  had  scarcely  time  to  recall  to 
her  recollection  the  image  of  her  husband  rushing  out 
into  the  storm,  and  of  a  daughter  therein  lost,  till  she 
beheld  that  very  husband  kneeling  tenderly  by  her 
iTed-side,  and  that  very  daughter  smoothingthe  pillow 
on  which  her  aching  temples  reclined.  But  she  knew 
from  the  white,  steadfast  countenances  before  her 
that  there  had  been  tribulation  and  deliverance,  and 
she  looked  on  the  beloved  beings  ministering  by  her 
bed,  as  more  fearfully  dear  to  her  from  the  unima- 
gined  danger  from  which  she  felt  assured  they  had 
been  rescued  by  the  arm  of  th»>  Almighty. 

There  is  little  need  to  speak  of  returning  recollec- 
tion, and  returning  strength.  They  had  all  now 
power  to  weep,  and  power  to  pray.  The  Bible  had 
been  lying  in  its  place  ready  for  worship — and  the 
father  read  aloud  that  chapter  in  which  is  narrated 
our  Saviour's  act  of  miraculous  power,  by  which  he 
saved  Peter  from  the  sea.  Soon  as  the  solemn 
thoughts  awakened  by  that  act  of  mercy  so  similar 
to  that  which  had  rescued  themselves  from  death 


had  subsided,  and  they  had  all  risen  up  from  prayer, 
they  gathered  themselves  in  gratitude  round  the  lit- 
tle table  which  had  stood  so  many  hours  spread — 
and  exhausted  nature  was  strengthened  and  restored 
by  a  frugal  and  simple  meal  partaken  of  in  silent 
thankfulness.  The  whole  story  of  the  night  was 
then  recited— and  when  the  mother  heard  how  the 
stripling  had  followed  her  sweet  Hannah  into  the 
storm,  and  borne  her  in  his  arms  through  a  htmdred 
drifted  heaps — and  then  looked  upon  her  in  her 
pride,  so  young,  so  innocent,  and  so  beautiful,  she 
knew,  that  were  the  child  indeed  to  become  an 
orphan,  there  was  one,  who,  if  there  was  either  trust 
in  nature,  or  truth  in  religion,  would  guard  and 
cherish  her  all  the  days  of  her  life. 

It  was  not  nine  o'clock  when  the  storm  came 
down  from  Glen  Scrae  upon  the  Black-moss,  and 
now  in  a  pause  of  silence  the  clock  struck  twelve. 
Within  these  three  hours  William  and  Hannah  had 
led  a  life  of  trouble  and  of  joy,  that  had  enlarged 
and  kindled  their  hearts  within  them — and  they  felt 
that  henceforth  they  were  to  live  wholly  for  each 
other's  sakes.  His  love  was  the  proud  and  exulting 
love  of  a  deliverer  who,  under  Providence,  had  saved 
from  the  frost  and  the  snow,  the  innocence  and  the 
beauty  of  which  his  young  passionate  heart  had 
been  so  desperately  enamoured — and  he  now  thought 
of  his  own  Hannah  Lee  ever  more  moving  about  his 
father's  house,  not  as  a  servant,  but  as  a  daughter — 
and  when  some  few  happy  years  had  gone  by,  his 
own  most  beautiful  and  most  loving  wife.  The  in- 
nocent maiden  still  called  him  her  young  master — 
but  was  not  ashamed  of  the  holy  affection  which 
she  now  knew  that  she  had  long  felt  for  the  fearless 
youth  on  whose  bosom  she  had  thought  harself  dy- 
ing in  that  cold  and  miserable  moor.  Her  heart 
leaped  within  her  when  she  heard  her  parents  bless 
him  by  his  name — and  when  he  took  her  hand  into 
his  before  them,  and  vowed  before  that  Power  who 
had  that  night  saved  them  from  the  snow,  that  Han- 
nah Lee  should  ere  long  be  his  wedded  wife — she 
wept  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break  in  a  fit 
of  strange  and  insupportable  happiness. 

The  young  shepherd  rose  to  bid  them  farewell — 
"  My  father  will  think  I  am  lost,"  said  he,  with  a 
grave  smile,  "  and  my  Hannah's  mother  knows  what 
it  is  to  fear  for  a  child."  So  nothing  was  said  to 
detain  him,  and  the  family  went  with  him  to  the 
door.  The  skies  smiled  as  serenely  as  if  a  storm 
had  never  swept  before  the  stars — the  moon  was 
sinking  from  her  meridian,  but  in  cloudless  splen- 
dour— and  the  hollow  of  the  hills  was  hushed  as  that 
of  heaven.  Danger  there  was  none  over  the  placid 
night-scene—  the  happy  youth  soon  crossed  the  Black- 
moss,  now  perfectly  still — and,  perhaps,  just  as  he 
was  passing,  with  a  shudder  of  gratitude,  the  very 
spot  where  his  sweet  Hannah  Lee  had  so  nearly 
perished,  she  was  lying  down  to  sleep  in  her  inno- 
cence, or  dreaming  of  one  now  dearer  to  her  than  all 
on  eiuth  but  her  parents. 


VOICES    OF    TIIK    TRUE-HEARTED. 


113 


SONNETS  ON  THE  LORD'S  PRAYER- 

BY    KOBEllT    T.    CONRAD. 

I.     Our  Father. 

Our  Father  !  Holiest  name,  first,  fondest,  best ! 
Sweet  is  the  nriurmared  music  of  the  vow 
When  young  love's  kiss  first  prints  the  maiden's 
brow  ; 

But  sweeter,  to  a  father's  yearning  breast 

His  blue-eyed  boy's  soft  prattle.     This  is  love! — 
Pure  as  the  streamlets  that  distil  through  moun- 
tains, 
And  drop,  in  diamonds,  in  their  cavern'd  fountains  ; 

Warm  as  our  heart-drops ;   true  as  truth  above. 

And  is  such  Thine  ?  For  whom?  For  all— ev'n  me  ! 
Thou  to  whom  all  that  is  which  sight  can  reach 
Is  but  a  sand-grain  on  the  ocean  beach 

Of  being !     Down  my  soul  :  it  cannot  be  ! 

But  he  hath  said !  Up,  soul,  imto  His  throne  ! 

Father,  "our  Father,"  bless  and  save  thine  own! 

II.     Who  art  in  Heaven. 

Who  art  in  Heaven  !     Thou  know'st  nor  mete  nor 
bound. 

Thy  presence  is  existence.     'Neath  thine  eye, 

Systems  spring  forth,  revolve,  and  shine — and  die  ; 
Ev'n  as,  to  us,  within  their  little  round. 
The  bright  sands  in  the  eddying  hill-side  spring. 

Sparkle  and  pass  forever  down  the  stream. 

Slow- wheeling  Saturn,  of  the  misty  beam, 
Circles  but  atoms  with  his  mighty  wing ; 
And  bright-eyed  Sirius,  but  a  sentry,  glows 

Upon  the  confines  of  infinity. 

Where  Thou  art  not,  ev'n  Nothing  cannot  be  ! 
Where  Thy   smile  is,   is  Heaven  ;   where  not — all 

woes, 
Sin's  chaos  and  its  gloom.     Grant  thy  smile  be 
My  light  of  life,  to  guide  me  up  to  Thee! 

III.     Hallowed  be  Thy  name. 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name  !     In  every  clime, 
'Neath  every  sky  !     Or  in  this  smiling  land. 
Where  "Vice,  bold-brow'd,  and  Craft  walk  hand  in 
hand. 

And  varnish'd  Seeming  gives  a  grace  to  Crime ; 

Or  in  the  howling  wild,  or  on  the  plain. 

Where  Pagans  tremble  at  their  rough-hewn  God ; 
Wherever  voice  hath  spoke  or  foot  hath  trod  ; 
Sacred  Thy  name !     The  skeptic  wild  and  vain  ; 

Rous'd  from  his  rosy  joys,  the  Osmanlite  ; 
The  laughing  Ethiop;  and  the  dusk  Hindoo  : 
Thy  sons  of  every  creed,  of  every  hue  ; 

Praise  Thee  !     Nor  Earth  alone.     Each  star  of  night, 

Join  in  the  choir !    till  Heaven  and  Earth  acclaim — 

Still,  and  for  ever.  Hallowed  be  Thy  name  ! 

IV.      Thy  kingdom  come. 
Thy  kingdom  come  !     Speed,  angel  wings,  that  time  ! 


Then,  known  no  more  the  guile  of  gain,  the  leer 
Of  lewdness,  frowning  power,  or  pallid  fear. 

The  shriek  of  suffering  or  the  howl  of  crime  ! 

All  will  be  Thine — all  best !     Thy  kingdom  come  ! 
Then  in  Thy  arms  the  sinless  earth  will  rest, 
As  smiles  the  infant  on  its  mother's  breast. 

The  dripping  bayonet  and  the  kindling  drum 

Unknown — for  not  a  foe  :  the  thong  unknown — 
For  not  a  slave  :  the  cells,  o'er  which  Despair 
Flaps  its  black  wing  and  fans  the  sigh-swoH'n  air, 

Deserted  !     Night  will  pass,  and  hear  no  groan  ! 

Glad  Day  look  down  nor  see  nor  guilt  nor  guile  ; 

And  all  that  Thou  hast  made  reflect  Thy  smile; 

V.     Thy  will  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven. 

Thy  will  be  done  on  earth  as  't  is  in  heaven ! 

That  will  which  chords  the  music-moving  spheres, 
With  harmonies  unheard  by  mortal  ears ; 

And,  losing  which,  our  orb  is  jarred  and  riven. 

Ours  a  crush'd  harp !  Its  strings  by  tempests  shaken  ; 
Swept  by  the  hand  of  sin,  its  guilty  tones 
Startle  the  spheres  with  discord  and  with  groans  ; 

By  virtue,  peace,  hope — all  but  Thee — forsaken! 

Oh,  be  its  chords  restrung !     Thy  will  be  done  ? 
Mysterious  law!     Our  griefs  approve  that  will : 
For  as  shades  haunt  the  night,  grief  follows  ill ; 

And  bliss  tends  virtue,  as  the  day  the  sun. 

Homage  on  earth,  as  'tis  on  high,  be  given  : 

For  when  Thy  will  is  done,  then  earth  is  heaven  ! 

VI.     Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread. 

Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread !     Thou  art 
Lord  of  the  harvest.     Thou  hast  taught  the  song 
Sung  by  the  rill  the  grassy  vale  along ; 

And  't  is  Thy  smile,  when  Summer's  zephyrs  start. 

That  makes  the  wavy  wheat  a  sea  of  gold  ! 
Give  me  to  share  thy  boon !     No  miser  hoard 
I  crave  ;  no  splendor  ;  no  Apician  board ; 

Freedom,  and  faith,  and  food — and  all  is  told  ; 

I  ask  no  more.     But  spare  my  brethren  !  they 
Now  beg,  in  vain,  to  toil ;  and  cannot  save 
Their  wan-eyed  lov'd  ones,  sinking  to  the  grave. 

Give  them  their  daily  bread  !     How  many  pray, 

Alas,  in  vain,  for  food  !     Be  Famine  fed  ; 

And  give  us.  Lord,  this  day,  our  daily  bread  ! 

VII.     Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those 
who  trespass  against  us. 

Forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive 

Those  who  against  us  trespass  !     Though  we  take 
Life,  blessings,  promis'd  heaven,  from  Thee  ;  we 
make 

Life  a  long  war  'gainst  Him  in  whom  we  live  ! 

Pure  once  ;  now  like  the  Cities  of  the  Plain, 
A  bitter  sea  of  death  and  darkness  rolls 
Its  heavy  waves  above  our  buried  souls. 

Yet  wilt  Thou  raise  us  to  the  light  again. 

Worms  as  we  are,  if  we  forgive  the  worm 


144 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


That  grovels  in  our  way.     How  light  the  cost, 
And  yet  how  hard  the  task !     For  we  are  lost 

In  sin.     Do  thou  my  soul  uphold  and  form  ! 

Bankrupt  and  lost  to  all  but  hope  and  Thee ; 

Teacii  me  to  pardon  ;  and  oh,  pardon  me ! 

VIH.     And  lead  us  not  into  temptation. 

Lead  us  not  into  temptation  I     The  eartlis  best 
Find,  but  in  flight,  their  safety  ;  and  the  wise 
Shun,  with  considerate  steps,  its  Basilisk  eyes. 

Save  us  from  Pleasure,  with  the  heaving  breast 

And  unbound  zone  ;  from  Flattery's  honeyed  tongue ; 
Avarice,  with  golden  palm  and  icy  heart ; 
Ambition's  marble  smile  and  earthly  art; 

The  rosy  cup  where  aspic  death  is  hung ! 

Better  the  meal  of  pulse  and  bed  of  stone, 
And  the  calmy  safety  of  the  Anchorite, 
Than  aught  that  life  can  give  of  wild  and  bright. 

Be  thou  my  joy,  my  hope,  my  strength  alone! 

Save  from  the  tempter !     Should  he  woo  to  ill, 

Be  thou  my  rock,  my  shield,  my  safety  still ! 

IX.     But  deliver  us  from  evil. 

Deliver  us  from  evil  !     Hapless  race  ! 

Our  life  a  shadow  and  our  walk  a  dream ; 

Onr  gloom  a  fate,  our  joy  a  fitful  gleam; 
Where  is  our  hope  but  'Ihce  I     Oh  give  us  grace 
To  win  thy  favor  !     Save  from  loud- voic'd  Wrong, 

And  creeping  Craft !     Save  from  the  hate  of  foes  ; 

The  treachery  of  friends  ;  the  many  woes, 
Which,  to  the  clash  of  man  with  man  belong ! 
Save  those  I  love  from  want,  from  sickness,  pain  ! 

And — spared  that  pang  of  pangs — oh  let  me  die 

Before,  for  them,  a  tear-drop  fills  my  eye ; 
A  nd  dying,  let  me  hope  to  meet  again ! 
Oh,  save  me  from  myself!     Make  me  and  mine, 
In  life  and  spirit,  ever,  only  Thine  ! 

X.     For  Thine  is  the  kingdom,  and  the  power,  and  the 
glory,  fur  ever,  Amen. 

Thine  is  the  kingdom,  power  and  glory !     Thine 

A  kingdom,  based  on  past  eternity, 

So  vast,  the  pond'rous  thought — could  such  thought 
be— 
Would  crush  the  mind  ;   a  power  that  wills  should 

shine 
A  million  worlds  ;  they  shine — should  die  ;  they  die : 

A  glory  to  which  the  sun  is  dim  ; 

And  from  whose  radiance  e'en  the  saraphim. 
Heaven-born,  must  veil  the  brow  and  shade  the  eye! 
And  these  are  Thine,  forever!     Fearful  word. 

To  us,  the  beings  of  a  world  of  graves 

And  minutes!     Yet  Thy  cov'nant  promise  saves  : 
Our  trust  is  in  Thee,  Father,  Saviour,  Lord  ! 
Holy,  thrice  holy.  Thou  I     Forever,  then, 
Be  kingdom,  power  and  glory  Thine  !     Amen. 


FOREST  WOOD. 

BV     EBENEZER    ELLIOTT. 

AVithin  the  snn-lit  forest. 

Our  roof  the  bright  blue  sky. 
Where  fountains  flow,  and  wild  flowers  blow. 

We  lift  our  hearts  on  high  : 
Beneath  the  frown  of  wicked  men 

Our  country's  strength  is  bowing  ; 
But  thanks  to  God  !  they  can't  prevent 

'I'he  lone  wild  flowers  from  blowing  ! 

High,  high  above  the  tree  tops 

The  lark  is  soaring  free; 
Where  streams  the  light  through  broken  clouds 

His  speckled  breast  I  see. 
Beneath  the  might  of  wicked  men 

The  poor  man's  worth  is  dying; 
But,  Ihank'd  be  God  I  in  spite  of  them, 

The  lark  still  warbles  flying  1 

The  preacher  says,  "  Lord  bless  us  !" 

"  Lord  bless  us  !"  echo  cries  ; 
"  Amen  !'•  the  breezes  murmur  low, 

"  Amen  !"  the  rill  replies  ; 
The  ceaseless  toil  of  wo-worn  hearts 

'J'he  proud  with  pangs  are  paying  ; 
But  here,  oh  God  of  earth  and  heaven  I 

The  humble  heart  is  praying. 

How  softly  in  the  pauses 

Of  song,  re-echoed  wide, 
The  cushat's  coo,  the  linnet's  lay, 

O'er  rill  and  river  glide. 
With  evil  deeds  of  men 

The  afljighted  land  is  ringing; 
But  still,  oh  Lord  !  the  pious  heart 

And  soul-toned  voice  are  singing. 

Hush  !  hush  !   the  preacher  preacheth, 

"  Wo  to  the  oppressor,  wo  !" 
But  sudden  gloom  o'ercasts  the  sun, 

And  saddened  flowers  below  : 
So  frowns  the  Lord !  but  tyrants,  ye 

Deride  his  indignation. 
And  see  not,  in  his  gathered  brow. 

Your  day  of  tribulation  ! 

Speak  low,  thou  heaven-paid  teacher  I 

The  tempest  bursts  above  ; 
God  whispers  in  the  thunder  :  hear 

The  terrors  of  his  love  ! 
On  useful  heads  and  honest  hearts 

The  base  their  wrath  are  wreaking ; 
But  thank'd  be  God  I  they  can't  prevent 

The  storm  of  heaven  from  speaking. 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE  HEARTED. 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 

BY  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

Some  of  the  leading  sectarian  papers  have  lately 
published  the  letter  of  a  clergyman,  giving  an  ac- 
count of  his  attendance  upon  a  criminal,  (who  had 
committed  murder  during  a  fit  of  intoxication)  at 
the  time  of  his  execution,  in  Western  New  York 
The  writer  describes  the  agony  of  the  wretched 
being — his  abortive  attempts  at  prayer — his  appeal 
for  life — his  horror  of  a  violent  death  ;  and  after  de- 
claring his  belief  that  the  poor  victim  died  without 
hope  of  salvation,  concludes  with  a  warm  eulogy 
upon  the  Gallows,  being  more  than  ever  convinced 
of  its  utility,  by  the  awful  dread  and  horror  which 
it  inspired. 

Far  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 

By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 
Blown  clover-field  and  strawberry  dell. 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 

The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 
Again  from  careless  feet,  the  dew 

Of  summer's  misty  morn  he  shook  : 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back  crowded  all  his  school-day  joys- 
He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 
And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 
Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze. 

Its  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping  hay  ; 
And  down  again  through  wind-stirred  trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sun-light  play. 
An  angel  in  Home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more  ; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locked  head 
Upon  his  mother's  knee  was  laid. 
And  sweetly  lulled  in  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer  ! 

He  woke.     At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  terror  rushed  again — 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain! 
He  woke  to  hear  the  church  tower  tell 
Time's  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life's  last  hour  had  ushered  in ; 
To  see  within  his  prison-yard. 
Through  the  small-window,  iron-barred. 
The  Callow's  shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him, — 

A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air — 
A  blackness  in  his  morning  light — 


Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 
Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 
And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight. 

Dark,  horrible,  confused  and  strange, 

A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change. 

All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 

Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 

In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 
In  vain  he  turned  the  holy  book, 

He  only  heard  the  Gallows-stair 

Creak,  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 

No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven. 
While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood. 
With  its  hoarse  murmur,  "  Blood  for  Blood  I" 

Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven  ! 

Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt. 

And  smote  his  breast ;  and  on  his  chain, 

Whose  demon  clasp  he  always  felt. 
His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain  : 

And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm  look 
And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 
Unwarmed,  unsoftened  of  the  heart, 

Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 

With  placid  look  and  tranquil  blood. 

The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 

Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 

The  Gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord  : 

Lending  the  Gospel's  sacred  awe 

And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 

He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow — 
The  sweat  of  anguish  starting  there — 

The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare. 
Seen  hideous  thro'  the  long,  damp  hair — 

Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 

Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone  ! 

And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 

From  heaving  breast  and  stiffened  tongue. 
The  choking  sob  and  low  hoarse  prayer  ; 

As  o'er  his  half  crazed  fancy  came 

A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame — 

Its  smoky  cloud  of  agonies — 

Its  demon-worm  that  never  dies — 

The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 

Of  fire  waves  round  the  infernal  wall : 

While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood. 

Black,  giant  like,  the  Gallows  stood  : 

Two  busy  fiends  attending  there  ; 

One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 

The  other  with  impatient  grasp. 

Tightening  the  death-rope's  strangling  clasp ! 


146 


VOICES    OF   THE    T  R  U  E  -  H  E  A  R  T  E  D  . 


The  unfclt  rite  at  length  was  done — 

The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was  said — 
An  hour  had  passed  : — the  noon  day  sun 

Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead  ! 
And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 
Calm  guager  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
Whate'er  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Of  man's  extremest  wretchedness  : 
And  who,  in  that  dark  anguish,  saw 

An  earnest  of  the  victim's  Aite, 
The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  Hatt— 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of  Pain, — 
Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which  gave 

His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave. 
Whereon  Hope's  moon-light  never  lies. 

And  Faith's  white  blossoms  never  wave 
To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory's  sighs  ; — 
Which  sent  a  spirit  marred  and  stained, 
By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 
In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark, 
Into  the  silent  unknown  dark  ? 
No — from  the  wild  and  shrinking  dread 
With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 

Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead. 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides. 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  Law  ; 
New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand. 
By  murder  at  that  Law's  command  ; 
New  reverence  for  the  Gallows-rope, 
As  human  nature's  latest  hope  ; 
Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time. 
When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime, 
And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 
By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck  ; 
Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 
Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom  out. 
And  timely  checked  the  words  which  sprung 
From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue  ; 
While,  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound. 
The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 
Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan. 
The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 
Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 
But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord  1 

Oh  Thou  !  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  the  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And  waking  saw  with  joy  above, 
A  brothers  face  of  tenderest  love ; 


Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin  sick  came, 
And  from  Thy  very  garment's  hem 
Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them. 
The  burthen  of  Thy  holy  faith 
W'as  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death  : 
Man's  demon  ministers  of  Pain, 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge,  were  sent 

From  Thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Ihy  name  is  Love!   What  then  is  he 

Who  in  that  name  the  Gallows  rears. 
An  awful  altar,  built  to  Thee 
With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears? 
Oh;  once  again  Tliy  healing  lay 

On  the  blind  eyes  which  know  Thee  not, 
And  let  the  light  of  thy  pure  day 

Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 
Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 

The  power  which  in  forbearance  lies, 
And  let  him  feel  that  Mercy  now 

Is  better  than  old  sacrifice. 

As  on  the  White  Sea's  charmed  shore, 

The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 
With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained  o'er, 
Yet  knows  beneath  them  evermore 

The  low  pale  fire  is  quivering  still ; 
So,  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin  : 

And  half  quenched  stars  that  never  set 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow. 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there. 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air. 
Oh  !  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained  but  priceless  soul. 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "  Despair!" 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away. 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray — 

My  brother  man.  Beware  I 
With  that  deep  voice  which,  from  the  skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarch's  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  Forbe.\r  I 


Poetry  has  been  to  me  its  own  "  exceeding  great 
reward  ;"  it  has  soothed  my  affliction  ;  it  has  mul- 
tiplied and  refined  my  enjoyments  ;  it  has  endeared 
solitude  ;  and  it  has  given  me  the  habit  of  wishing 
to  discover  the  good  and  the  beautiful  in  all  that 
meets  and  surrounds  me. — Colrridge. 


You   cannot 
them. 


live  for  men,    without  living  ivith 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


147 


POEMS  BY  WILLIAM  H.  BURLEIGH. 


"THE  EARTH  IS  THE  LORD'S/' 

PSALM    XXIV. 

Lord  !  the  earth  is  thine, 
And  the  fulness  of  the  sea — 

Heaps  of  gold,  and  gems  that  sliine, 

Flashing  through  the  flashing  brine, 
All  belong  to  Thee  ! 

Underneath  the  yeasty  waves, 

Where  the  great  sea-monsters  roam. 

Thou  hast  hollowed  wond'rous  caves 
For  their  ocean  home. 

Where  the  huge  Leviathan 
Revels  in  his  kingly  might 
Over  beds  of  chrysolite, 
Thou  hast  buikled  temples  fairer — 
Thou  hast  fashioned  grottos  rarer 

Than  the  proudest  works  of  man. 
There  uncounted  treasures  lie 
Hidden  deep  from  human  eye  ; 
Lustrous  gems,  whose  radiant  gleams 
Sparkle  aye  in  starry  beams. 

All  the  wonders  of  the  sea, 

All  the  gems  that  flash  and  shine 
Underneath  the  ocean-brine, 

God  !  belong  to  Thee  ! 

Lord !  the  earth  is  thine, 

And  the  fulness  of  the  earth  ! 
Thou,  in  sovereignty  of  will, 
From  thine  everlasting  hill, 
Called  the  light — the  voice  Divine     . 

O'er  the  formless  void  went  forth, 

And  the  darkness  fled  ! 
From  the  mass  chaotic  hurled 
Rose  to  life  this  wond'rous  world — 
Suns  and  stars  with  constant  force 
And  undeviating  course 

In  their  orbits  sped. 
Tree,  and  plant,  and  opening  flower, 

In  their  virgin  beauty  drest, 
Heard  the  mandate,  and  Thy  power 

Instantly  confessed. 
All  by  Thee  were  called  to  birth, 
Sole  Proprietor  of  Earth. 
Thine  is  every  living  thing — 

From  the  sluggish  worm  that  crawls 

O'er  the  dungeon's  slimy  walls, 
To  the  forest's  tameless  king — 
And  the  bird,  whose  rapid  wing 

Flashes  in  the  glad  sunshine, 
As  it  soars  aloft,  to  fling 
Out  upon  the  gales  of  spring 

0  ifts  of  song  that  seem  divine — 

Insect,  beast,  and  bird  are  thine ! 
Formed  by  Thy  creating  hand, 
Heedful  ail  to  Thy  command. 


Hills  arrayed  in  living  green, 

Where  the  sunshine  loves  to  linger, 
And  the  wind  with  wizard  finger, 
Trifles  with  the  springing  grass — 
Waters  singing  as  they  pass, 

(Pauses  none  to  intervene,) 
With  a  low  and  pleasant  tune, 
All  the  leafy  time  of  June — 
Valleys  with  the  sunshine  dancing 
On  their  verdant  slopes,  and  glancing 

Downward  to  their  deepest  beds — 
Forests,  regally  uplifting 

To  the  clouds  their  crowned  heads — 

And  the  undulating  plain 

Swaying  with  the  swaying  grain — 

These  are  Thine— and  Thine  the  sky, 

With  its  gorgeous  pageantry, 
And  its  shadows  ever  shifting. 

Wait  they  all  upon  thy  word. 

Nature's  universal  Lord! 

Then  to  Thee,  of  life  the  Giver, 
Praises  be  ascribed  for  ever  ! 
Thine  be  thanks  and  adoration, 
Thine  be  songs  of  exultation : 

Thanks  and  songs  for  ever  given — 
Every  voice  in  concert  sounding, 
Every  heart  with  rapture  bounding, 
All  harmonious  anthems  blending, 
Louder  swelling  as  ascending — 

Tribute  of  the  earth  to  Heaven  ! 


H.  A.  B. 

Deem  not,  Beloved !  that  the  glow 

Of  love  with  youth  will  know  decay — 
For  though  the  wing  of  time  may  throw 

A  shadow  o'er  our  way  ; 
The  sunshine  of  a  cloudless  faith, 

The  calmness  of  a  holy  trust. 
Shall  linger  in  our  hearts  till  Death 

Consigns  our  "  dust  to  dust!" 

The  fervid  passion  of  our  youth — 

The  fervor  of  Affection's  kiss — 
Love,  born  of  purity  and  truth — 

All  pleasant  memories — 
These  still  are  ours,  while  looking  back 

Upon  the  Past  with  dewy  eyes  ; 
Oh  dearest !  on  Life's  vanished  track 

How  much  of  sunshine  lies  ! 

Men  call  us  poor— it  may  be  true 

Amid  the  gay  and  glittering  crowd— 
We  feel  it,  though  our  wants  are  few, 

Yet  envy  not  the  proud. 
The  freshness  of  Love's  early  flowers, 

Heart-sheltered  through  long  years  of  want, 
Pure  hopes  and  quiet  joys  are  ours, 

That  wealth  could  never  grant. 


148 


VOICES  OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


Something  of  beauty  from  thy  brow, 

Something  of  liglitness  from  thy  tread, 
Hath  passed — yet  thou  art  dearer  now 

Than  when  our  vows  were  said  . 
A  softer  beauty  round  ihee  gleanns 

Chastened  by  time,  yet  calmly  bright ; 
And  from  thine  eye  of  hazel,  beams 

A  deeper,  tenderer  light — 

An  emblem  of  the  love  which  lives 

Through  every  change,  as  time  departs; 
Which  binds  our  souls  in  one,  and  gives 

New  gladness  to  our  hearts  ! 
Flinging  a  halo  over  life 

Like  that  which  gilds  the  life  beyond  ! 
Ah  I  well  I  know  thy  thoughts,  dear  wile  ! 

To  thoughts  like  these  respond. 

The  mother,  with  her  dewy  eye. 

Is  dearer  than  the  blushing  bride 
Who  stood,  three  happy  years  gone  by. 

In  beauty  by  my  side  ! 
OiR  Father,  throned  in  light  above, 

Hath  blessed  us  with  a  fairy  child — 
A  bright  link  in  the  chain  of  love — 

The  pure  and  undefiled  : 

Rich  in  the  heart's  best  treasure,  still 

With  a  calm  trust  we'll  journey  on, 
Linked  heart  with  heart,  dear  wife !  until 

Life's  pilgrimage  be  done  I 
Youth — beauty — passion — these  will  pass 

Like  every  thing  of  earth  away — 
The  breath-stains  on  the  polished  gl^ss 

Less  transient  are  than  they. 

But  love  dies  not — the  child  of  God — 

The  soother  of  Life's  many  woes — 
She  scatters  fragrance  round  the  sod 

Where  buried  hopes  repose  ! 
She  leads  us  with  her  radiant  hand 

Earth's  pleasant  streams  and  pasture  by, 
Still  pointing  to  a  better  land 

Of  bliss  beyond  the  sky! 

MARY  Howrrj'. 

Priestess  of  Nature  !  in  the  solemn  woods 
And  by  the  sullen  sea,  whose  ceaseless  roar 
Speaks  of  God's  majesty  for  evermore. 
And  where  the  cataracts  dash  their  shattered  floods 
Down  to  the  iris-girdled  gulfs  which  yawn 
Eternally  beneath,  thy  hand  hath  reared 
Altars  whereon  no  blood-stain  hath  appeared — 
Eut  there,  at  dewy  eve,  or  kindling  dawn, 
Meek-hearted  children,  with  their  offerings 
Of  buds  or  bursting  flowers,  together  kneel 
In  gladdest  worship,  till  their  spirits  feel 
A  new  and  holier  baptism  ;  while  the  springs 
Of  joy  are  opened,  and  their  waters  flow 
Forth  to  the  laughing  light,  exulting  as  they  go  ! 


TO  MY  QUAKER  COUSIN. 

"  Don't  tell  me  of  the  feelings,  the  fine  sensibili- 
ties, the  hope  and  joy,  and  the  true  poetry  of  man's 
life  being  blunted  by  the  increase  of  years  !  Why, 
I'll  hate  old  age,  if  it  is  true  !  Make  this,  if  thee 
pleases,  no  longer  an  apology  for  the  laziness  thee 
is  guilty  of  when  thee  ceases  to  give  us  and  every 
body  the  '  scintillations  of  thy  poetical  genius.'  It 
is  not  that  thy  '  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf,'  but 
that  they  are  days  of  downright — laziness  !" 

Extract  from  her  letter. 

Yes,  thou  art  right,  sweet  coz  !   I  own 

I  am  a  lazy  rhymer — very, — 
And  seldom  gives  my  harp  a  tone 

Of  willing  music,  sad  or  merry  ; 
Its  strings  are  snapped,  or  out  of  tune, 

And  I  myself  am  out  of  fashion, 
For  wailing  ditties  to  the  moon 

Was  never  my  peculiar  passion. 

I  never  wet  my  thirsty  lip 

At  Helicon's  inspiring  fountain, 
Nor  even  in  fancy  took  a  trip 

To  meet  the  Muses  on  their  mountain. 
The  voice  of  Fame  is  sweet  enough, 

Doubtless,  for  devotees  who  love  her, 
But  then  her  hill  is  quite  too  rough 

And  steep  for  me  to  clamber  over. 

Lazy  and  uninspired,  can  I 

Write  for  thee  canzonet  or  sonnet  ? 
Or,  smitten  by  thy  beauty,  try 

To  perpetrate  a  song  upon  it  ? 
No — though  thy  charms  of  face  and  form 

Would  madden,  like  a  heavenly  vision, 
When  wine  and  love  had  rendered  warm 

Some  dreamier  of  the  fields  Elysian ! 

No — though  the  wicked  world  should  swear 

Thou  art  the  latest  importation 
From  that  bright  realm  where  seraphs  are 

Bending  for  aye  in  adoration  ! 
For  beauty  is  at  discount  now 

With  the  dull  muse  that  weaves  my  numbers, 
Nor  laughing  eye,  nor  polished  brow, 

Gleams  on  her  in  her  dreamless  slumbers. 

But,  for  the  brightness  of  thy  youth. 

And  for  the  chastened  love  I  bear  thee, 
And  for  thy  gentleness  and  truth, 

Which  even  thievish  Time  must  spare  thee, 
And  for  thy  heart  which  overflows 

With  kindness  for  the  wronged  and  lowly, 
And  for  thy  guileless  soul  which  glows 

With  tenderest  feelings,  pure  and  holy — 

And  for  that  fervent  zeal  for  Right 
Whicii  burneth  in  thy  bosom  ever, 

And  for  that  steadfast  faith  whose  might 
in  pcrilss  hour  shall  fail  thee  never— 


VOICES    OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


149 


For  human  sympathies,  which  bring 
True  hearts  around  thee  to  adore  thee — 

For  these,  dear  coz  !  I  kneel  and  fling 
The  tribute  of  my  song  before  thee. 

Others  may  sonnetize  the  spell 

That  lives  within  thy  radiant  glances, 
And  lying  bardlings  boldly  tell 

That  loveliness  around  thee  dances  ; 
Vows  may  be  oflTered  thee  in  rhyme, 

And  worship  paid  in  common  metre 
But  these  will  pass  with  passing  time, 

For  beauty  than  the  wind  is  fleeter. 

Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 

For  thee  a  tribute  undegrading  : 
Flowers  from  the  garden  of  the  mind, 

Fragrant  and  pure,  and  never  fading — 
Gems  from  the  mines  of  knowledge  won, 

Brighter  than  fancy  ever  painted — 
An  oflTering  to  lay  upon 

The  altar  of  a  heart  untainted. 

So,  when  the  hand  of  Time  hath  reft 

From  face  and  form  thy  youthful  graces, 
A  tenderer  beauty  shall  be  left 

To  sanctify  their  fading  traces  ; 
A  chastened  radiance,  born  of  Thought, 

Around  thy  path  shall  then  be  shining, 
With  more  than  earthly  brightness  fraught, 

To  gild  and  bless  thy  life's  declining! 


STANZAS, 

TO  THE  ABOLITIONISTS  OF  AMEEICa' 

Toil  and  pray ! 
Groweth  flesh  and  spirit  faint  ? 
Think  of  her  who  pours  her  plaint 

All  the  day — 
Her— the  wretched  negro  wife, 
Robbed  of  all  that  sweetens  life — 
Her — who  weeps  in  anguish  wild 
For  the  husband  and  the  child 

Torn  away ! — 

Nature's  ties, 
Binding  heart  with  kindred  heart. 
Rent  remorselessly  apart — 

Tears  and  sighs, 
Shrieks  and  prayers  unheeded  given. 
Calling  out  from  earth  to  heaven — 
All  that  speaks  the  slave's  distress — 
All  that  in  his  cup  doth  press 

Agonies — 

Wo  and  blight, 
Broken  heart  and  palsied  mind, 
Reason  crushed  and  conscience  blind, 

Darkest  night 


Shutting  from  the  spirit's  eye, 
Light  and  glory  from  on  high — 
Think  of  these — and  fuller  not .' 
Toil — until  the  slave  is  brought 
Up  to  light ! 

What  though  Hate 
Darkly  scowls  upon  your  path? 
Fear  not  ye  the  tyrant's  wrath — 

Hope,  and  wait — 
For  though  long  the  strife  endure. 
Freedom's  triumph  shall  be  sure  — 
Toil  in  faith,  for  God  hath  spoken. 
Every  fetter  shall  be  broken, 

Soon  or  late. 

Not  in  vain 
Hath  been  heard  your  voice  of  waniint 
Lo  !  a  better  day  is  dawning  ; 

And  again 
Shall  be  heard,  from  sea  to  sea. 
Loudest  songs  of  jubilee. 
Bursting  from  a  franchised  nation, 
As  it  leaps  in  exultation 

From  the  chai"  ' 


THE  FREEMAN. 

He  worthy  is  of  freedom— only  he 

Who  claims  the  boon  for  all— and,  strong  in  right, 
Rebukes  the  proud  oppressor  by  whose  might 

The  poor  are  crushed— for  Truth  hath  made  him  free, 

And  Love  hath  sanctified  his  liberty  ! 

When  Tyranny  his  horrid  head  uprears, 

And  blasts  the  earth  with  pestilential  breath. 
Girded  with  righteousness  and  strong  in  faith. 

He  stems  the  tide  of  wrong  ;  nor  scoffs,  nor  jeers, 

Nor  ruffian  threats,  nor  fierce  mobocracy. 

Can  daunt  his  soul,  or  turn  him  from  the  path 
Where  duty  points.     Not  his  the  craven  heart 
That  shrinks  when  tyrants  bluster  in  their  wrath  ; 

But  well  in  Freedom's  strife  he  bears  his  part. 

SOLITUDE. 
The  ceaseless  hum  of  men— the  dusty  streets, 
Crowded  with  multitudinous  life— the  din 
Of  toil  and  traffic— and  the  wo  and  sin, 
The  dweller  in  the  populous  city  meets— 
These  have  I  left  to  seek  the  cool  retreats 
Of  the  untrodden  forest,  where,  in  bowers 
Builded  by  Nature's  hand,  inlaid  with  flowers, 
And  roofed  with  ivy,  on  the  mossy  seats 
Reclining,  I  can  while  away  the  hours 
In  sweetest  converse  with  old  books,  or  give 
My  thoughts  to  God— or  fancies  fugitive 

Indulge,  while  over  me  their  radiant  showers 
Of  rarest  blossoms  the  old  trees  shake  down,— 
And  thanks  to  Him  my  meditations  crown  ! 


100 


\()irt:s    OF    JHE    TRUE-HEARTED 


ARCHY  MOORE. 

"  As  I  stooil  upon  the  forecastle  and  looked  to- 
wards the  land,  which  soon  seemed  but  a  little  streak 
in  the  horizon,  and  was  fast  sinking  from  our  sight,  I 
seemed  to  feel  a  heavy  weight  drop  offme.  The  chains 
were  gone.  I  felt  myself  a  freeman  ;  and  as  I  watch- 
ed the  fast-receding  shore,  my  bosom  heaved  with  a 
proud  scorn — a  mingled  ieeling  of  safety  and  disdain. 

"  '  Farewell,  my  country!' — such  were  the  thoughts 
that  rose  upon  my  mind,  and  pressed  to  find  an  utter- 
ance from  my  lips, — <and  such  a  cotnitry!  A  land 
boasting  to  be  the  chosen  seat  of  liberty  and  equal 
rights,  yet  holding  such  a  portion  of  her  people  in 
hopeless,  helpless,  miserable  bondage  !" 

"  '  Farewell  my  country!  Much  is  the  gratitude 
and  thanks  I  owe  thee  !  Land  of  the  tyrant  and  the 
slave,  farewell !  ' 

"  <  And  welcome,  welcome,  ye  botuiding  billows 
and  foaming  surges  of  the  ocean  !  Ye  are  the  em- 
blems and  the  children  of  liberty — I  hail  ye  as  my 
brothers! — for,  at  last,  I  too  am  free!  —  free! — 
free  !'  " — Archy  Moore,  Vol.  II.  p.  146-7. 

From  my  heel  I  have  broken  the  chain  ! 

I  have  shivered  the  j-'oke  from  my  neck ! 
Free ! — free ! — as  the  plover  that  rides  on  the  main — 

As  the  waters  that  dash  o'er  our  deck ! 
In  my  bosom  new  feelings  are  born — 

New  hopes  have  sprung  up  in  my  path — 
And  I  leave  to  my  country  defiance  and  scorn, 

The  curse  of  a  fugitive's  wrath  ! 
Ml/  country  ? — away  ! — for  the  gifts  which  she  gave 
Were  the  whip  and  the  fetter — the  life  of  a  slave  ! 

Thank  God  !  that  a  limit  is  set 

To  the  reach  of  the  tyrant's  control  ! 
That  the  down-trodden  serf  may  not  wholly  forget 

'J'he  right  and  the  might  of  his  soul ! 
That  though  years  of  oppression  may  dim 

The  fire  on  the  heart's  altar  laid. 
Yet,  lit  by  the  breath  of  Jehovah,  like  Him 

Tt  lives,  and  shall  live,  undocayed  ! 
Will  the  fires  of  the  mountain  grow  feeble  and  die  ? 
Beware  ! — for  the  tread  of  the  Earthquake  is  nigh  ! 

Proud  Land ! — there  is  vengeance  in  store 

For  thy  soul-crushing  despots  and  thee — 
When  Mercy,  grown  faint,  shall  no  longer  implore, 

But  the  day  of  thy  recompense  be — 
When  thy  cup  with  the  mixture  of  Vvrath 

Shall  be  full — the  Avenger,  in  power, 
Shall  sweep  like  a  tempest  of  fire  o'er  thy  path, 

Consuming  the  tree  and  the  flower — 
And  thy  mountains  shall  echo  the  sliriek  of  despair. 
While  the  smoke  of  thy  torment  shall  darken  the  air  I 

Wo  !  wo  I  to  the  forgers  of  chains, 

Who  trample  the  image  of  God  : 
Calls  for  vengeance  the  blood  of  the  bondman,  which 
stains 

The  cursed  an<l  the  verdureless  sod  ! 


Ye  may  tread  on  the  poor — but  not  long  ! 

Ye  may  torture  the  weak — while  ye  dare  ! 
But  wo  ! — for  the  arm  of  a  People  is  strong 

When  nerved  by  revenge  and  despair  ! 
Let  the  fetter  be  tightened! — the  sooner  'twill  break! 
Trample  on! — and  the  serf  shall  more  quickly  awake  ! 
*****  > 

My  country  ! — the  land  of  my  birth  ! 

Farewell  to  thy  fetters  and  thee ! 
The  by- word  of  tyrants — the  scorn  of  the  earth — 

A  mockery  to  all  shalt  thou  be  ! 
Hurra  !  for  the  sea  and  its  waves  ! 

Ye  billows  and  surges — all  hail  ! 
My  brothers  henceforth — for  ye  scorn  to  be  slaves, 

'  s  ye  toss  up  your  crests  to  the  gale  ! 
Farewell  to  the  land  of  the  "  charter  and  chain," — 
My  path  is  away  o'er  the  fetterless  main  ! 

A  SUMMER  MORNING  IN   THE  COUNTRY. 

How  sweetly  on  the  hill-side  sleeps 

The  sunlight  with  its  quickening  rays  ! 
The  verdant  trees  that  crown  the  steeps 

Grow  greener  in  its  quivering  blaze  : 
While  all  the  air  that  round  us  floats 

With  subtile  wing,  breathes  only  life — 
And,  ringing  with  a  thousand  notes, 

The  woods  with  song  are  rife. 
Why,  this  is  Nature's  holiday  ! 

She  puts  her  gayest  mantle  on — 
And,  sparkling  o'er  their  pebbly  way, 

With  gladder  shout  the  brooklets  run  ; 
The  birds  and  breezes  seem  to  give 

A  sweeter  cadence  to  their  song — 
A  brighter  life  the  insects  live 

That  float  in  light  along. 
'<  The  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills," 

The  fleecy  flocks  that  dot  the  vale, 
All  joy  alike  in  life,  that  fills 

The  air,  and  breathes  in  every  gale  ! 
And  who  that  has  a  heart  and  eye 

To  feel  the  bliss  and  drink  it  in, 
But  pants,  for  scenes  like  these,  to  fly 

The  city's  smoke  and  din — 
A  sweet  companionship  to  hold 

With  Nature  in  her  forest-bowers, 
And  learn  the  gentle  lessons  told 

By  singing  birds  and  opening  flowers  ? 
Nor  do  they  err  who  love  her  lore — 

Though  books  have  power  to  stir  my  heart, 
Yet  Nature's  varied  page  can  more 

Of  rapturous  joy  impart ! 
No  selfish  joy — if  Duty  calls, 

Not  sullenly  I  turn  from  these — 
Though  dear  the  dash  of  waterfalls, 

The  wind's  low  voice  among  the  trees, 
Birds,  flowers,  and  flocks — for  God  hath  taught 

— Oh,  keep,  my  heart  I  the  lesson  still — 
Ills  soul,  alone,  with  bliss  is  fraught. 

Who  heeds  the  Father's  will  ! 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRU]5-HEAR'I'ED. 


ir,i 


EXPOSTUI-ATION. 

('Like  thee,  oh  stream!  to  glide  in  solitude 
Noiselessly  on,  reflecting  sun  or  star, 
Unseen  by  man,  and  from  the  great  world's  jar 

Kept  evermore  aloof — methinks  'twere  good 

'i  0  live  thus  lonely  through  the  silent  lapse 
Of  my  appointed  time."     Not  wisely  said, 
Unthinking  Quietist !     The  brook  hath  sped 

Its  course  for  ages  through  the  narrow  gaps 
Of  rifted  hills  and  o'er  the  reedy  plain, 
Or  'mid  the  eternal  forests,  not  in  vain — 

The  grass  more  greenly  groweth  on  its  brink. 
And  lovelier  flowers  and  richer  fruits  are  there. 

And  of  its  crystal  waters  myriads  drink. 
That  else  would  faint  beneath  the  torrid  air. 

Inaction  now  is  crime.     The  old  earth  reels 
Inebriate  with  guilt ;  and  Vice,  grown  bold, 
Laughs  Innocence  to  scorn.     The  thirst  for  gold 
Hath  made  men  demons,  till  the  heart  that  feels 
The  impulse  of  impartial  love,  nor  kneels 
In  worship  foul  to  Mammon,  is  contemned. 
He  who  hath  kept  his  purer  faith,  and  stemmed 
Corruption's  tide,  and  from  the  ruffian  heels 
Of  impious  tramplers  rescued  periled  Right, 
Is  called  fanatic,  and  with  scoffs  and  jeers 
Maliciously  assailed.     The  poor  man's  tears 
Are  unregarded— the  oppressor's  might 
Revered  as  law— and  he  whose  righteous  way 
Departs  from  evil,  makes  himself  a  prey. 

What  then  ?     Shall  he  who  wars  for  Truth  succumb 
To  popular  Falsehood,  and  throw  down  his  shield, 
And  drop  the  sword  he  hath  been  taught  to  wield 
In  Virtue's  cause  ?     Shall  Righteousness  be  dumb. 
Awe-struck  before  Injustice  ?     No  ! — a  cry, 

"  Ho  !   to  the  rescue  '."  from  the  hills  hath  rung, 
And  men  have  heard  and  to  the  combat  sprung 
Strong  for  the  right,  to  conquer  or  to  die ! 

Up,  Loiterer  !  for  on  the  winds  are  flung 
The  banners  of  the  Faithful !— and  erect 
Beneath  their  folds  the  hosts  of  God's  Elect 

Stand  in  their  strength.  Be  thou  their  ranks  among. 
Fear  not,  nor  falter,  though  the  strife  endure. 
Thy  cause  is  sacred,  and  the  victory  sure. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  SOLILOQUY, 

(The  middle  of  December— Thermometer  at  Zero.) 

This  feels  like  winter  !     Ugh!   how  bitterly 
Cometh  the  keen  northwester  !     In  the  west 
Dark  clouds  are  piled  in  gloomy  masses  up, 
And  from  their  folds  comes  freezingly  the  breath 
Of  the  Storm-Spirit,  couched  and  shrouded  there. 
But  yestermorn  the  streams  were  murmuring 
With  their  low,  silvery  voices,  pouring  forth 


Their  own  peculiar  music  on  the  air. 

And  glancing  in  the  sunshine  radiantly. 

Now  their  clear  tones  are  hushed — for  the  Frost-King 

Hath  thrown  his  fetter  on  them,  and  evoked 

The  voice  of  melody  that  dwelt  with  them 

In  the  bright  sunny  hours,  and  they  are  staid 

In  their  free  current,  frozen,  murnnirless. 

Where  stays  the  sunshine  ?     Hath  it  learned  that 
Earth 
Is  chilled  through  all  her  veins,  and  for  some  giudge 
That  seemed  forgotten  long  ago,  resolved 
To  let  it  freeze  for  ever?     Or,  perchance. 
The  sun  himself  is  frozen.     If  that  cloud, 
That  hangs  so  like  a  pall  along  the  sky. 
Would  move  his  body  corporate,  and  begone 
Back  to  his'  ocean-mansion,  we  might  learn 
Whether  the  sun  be  dea4  or  slumbering. 

Ho  !  bring  my  cloak,  Katurah  !  Heap  the  wood 
On  the  hot  hearth — draw  up  the  high-backed  screen  : 
Let  the  winds  whistle  now,  if  so  they  will — 
I  care  but  little  for  their  minstrelsy. 
So  I  can  shut  from  me  their  freezing  breath. 
Well — I  am  warm  and  quiet ;  but,  i'  faith, 
I  pity  the  poor  wight  that's  forced  to  face 
Old  Boreas  to-day.     Necessity 
Alone  will  call  forth  travellers,  and — ugh !  ugh  I 
This  cough — ugh  !  ugh  ! — will  kill  me  presently 
An'  I  am  not  more  careful.     Oh,  the  seams 
Around  the  doors  and  windows  arr,  unclosed. 
List ! — List ! — a  roll  of  list !     I  will  not  freeze 
In  my  own  domicil.      Heap  on  the  wood, 
And  throw  another  mantle  round  me — there  ! 

Hark !  as  I  live,  I  hear  the  ringing  sound 
Of  the  light  skaters  on  the  frozen  lake — 
And  see  how  merrily  they  wheel  away 
In  swift  gyrations  o'er  the  glassy  ice. 
As  if  a  power  were  given  them  to  fly  I 
The  happy  dogs ! — Heaven  grant  they  may  not  freeze. 
I  thought  no  boy  would  venture  out  to-day 
For  sport  or  labor,  an'  he  were  not  flogged 
For  tarrying  within.     Well,  after  all. 
It  may  not  be  so  very  cold  for  them — 
And  I  remember  me  when  I  was  young. 
How  little  cared  I  for  the  biting  frost. 
So  I  might  whirl  upon  the  ringing  steel 
Merrily  on,  surrounded  by  a  group 
As  happy  as  myself,  all  life  and  joy  ! 
Buts'death:  a  few  short  years  will  make  a  change 
In  a  man's  sensitiveness,  'specially 
When  they  bring  with  them  gout  and  rheumatism, 
Toothachs  and  agues,  fevers  and  catarrhs — 
And  worse,  far  worse  than  aught,  ay,  than  all  else, 
Dread  hypochondria!     They  will  find  it  so — 
Those  merry  boys  now  skating  on  the  lake — 
If  they,  like  me,  indulge  in  turtle-soup. 
Sauces,  and  pies,  and  cakes,  and  the  whole  round 
Of  eatables  and  drinkables  which  load 


152 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


Their  glutton-feeding  table,  who,  like  me, 

Are  cursed  with  wealth  that  brings  but  pain  and  care. 

Would  I  were  still  a  merry,  pennyless  boy, 

As  light  of  foot  and  heart  as  I  was  once — 

Free  from  dispepsy — free  from  every  pain 

Money  has  purchased  for  me  ! — then  would  I 

Bind  the  bright  skate  upon  my  agile  heel, 

And  skim— ugh !  ugh  !— I've  added  to  my  cold. 


OUR  BESSIE. 

Oh,  Bessie  was  a  bonny  girl 

As  ever  happy  mother  kissed — 
And  when  our  Father  called  her  home, 

How  sadly  was  she  missed  ! 
For  grave  or  gay,  or  well  or  ill, 

She  had  a  thousand  winning  ways, 
And  mingled  infant  innocence 

In  all  her  tasks  and  plays. 

How  softly  beamed  her  happy  smile, 

Which  played  around  the  sweetest  mouth 
That  ever  fashioned  infant-words — 

The  sunshine  of  the  South, 
Mellowed  and  soft,  was  in  her  eye, 

And  gleamed  its  brightness  o'er  her  hair — 
All  creatures  that  had  life,  I  ween. 

Did  her  affections  share. 

Our  Bessie  had  a  loving  heart ; 

No  living  girl  could  gentler  be — 
And  'twas  her  happiness  to  sit 

Upon  her  father's  knee  ; 
And  as  he  talked  of  heavenly  things. 

And  told  of  Hi.-m  who  made  the  light, 
Her  eye,  uplit  with  spirit-beams. 

Grew  brighter  and  more  bright. 

With  reverent  voice  she  breathed  her  prayer, 

With  gentlest  tones  she  sang  her  hymn — 
And  when  she  talked  of  heaven,  our  eyes 

With  tears  of  joy  were  dim  ; 
Yet  in  our  selfish  grief  we  wept 

When  last  her  lips  upon  us  smiled — 
Oh,  could  we,  when  our  Father  called, 

Detain  the  happy  child  ? 

Our  home  is  poor,  and  cold  our  clime. 

And  misery  mingles  with  our  mirth — 
'Twas  meet  our  Bessie  should  depart 

From  such  a  weary  earth ! 
Oh,  she  is  safe  ! — no  cloud  can  dim 

The  brightness  of  her  ransomed  soul ! 
No  trials  vex,  no  tempter  lure 

Her  spirit  from  its  goal ! 

We  wrapt  her  in  her  snow-white  shroud — 
We  smoothed  again  her  sunny  hair. 

And  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  breast — 
Oh  !  she  was  wondrous  fair  ! 


We  kissed  her  cheek,  and  kissed  her  brow  ; 

Ami  if  aright  we  read  the  smile 
'I  hat  lingered  on  her  pallid  lips, 

It  told  of  Heaven  the  while  ! 

She  lived — a  radiant  Presence,  lent 

To  bless  our  hearts  and  glad  our  hearth  ; 
She  died — oh,  bitter  was  the  cup — 

To  wean  us  from  the  earth ! 
Dear  God  !     Thy  name  be  praised  for  her — 

For  sweetest  memories  of  our  child — 
The  angel  called  from  earth  to  heaven 

A  spirit  undefiled  ! 


THE  WITNESSES. 

EV  HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW. 

In  Ocean's  wide  domains, 

Half  buried  in  the  sands. 
Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 

With  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews. 

Deeper  than  plummet  lies. 
Float  ships  with  all  their  crews, 

No  more  to  sink  or  rise. 

'J'here  the  black  slave-ship  swims, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 

Whose  fettered  fleshless  limbs 
Are  not  the  sport  of  storms. 

These  are  the  bones  of  slaves  ; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss  ; 
They  cry,  from  yawning  waves, 

'  We  are  the  Witnesses  '.' 

Within  Earth's  wide  domains 
Are  markets  for  men's  lives  ; 

Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains. 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves. 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 

In  deserts  makes  its  prey  ; 
Murders,  that  with  affright 

Scare  schoolboys  from  their  play  ! 

All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds, 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride  ; 
The  foulest,  rankest  weeds, 

That  choke  Life's  groaning  tide  ! 

These  are  the  woes  of  slaves ; 

They  glare  from  the  abyss; 
They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 

'  We  are  the  Witnesses!' 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


153 


SONNETS  BY  HENRY  ELLISON. 


THE   STARS. 

The  stars  come  forth,  a  silent  hymn  of  praise 
To  the  great  God,  and,  shining  every  one, 
Make  up  the  glorious  harmony,  led  on 
By  Hesperus,  their  chorister  :  each  plays 
A  part  in  the  great  concert  with  its  rays, 
And  yet  so  stilly,  modestly,  as  none 
Claimed  to  himself  aught  of  the  good  thus  done 
By  all  alike,  each  shining  in  his  place ; 
Each  has  his  path,  there  moves  unerringly, 
Nor  covets  empty  fame.     Do  we  as  they  : 
Let  each  soul  lend  its  utmost  light,  each  play 
In  the  grand  concert  of  humanity 
Its  destined  part :  then  mankind  on  its  way 
Shall  move  as  surelv  as  those  stars  on  high ! 


THOUGHT. 

What  is  the  Warrior's  sword  compared  with  thee  ? 
A  brittle  reed  against  a  giant's  might! 
What  are  the  Tyrant's  countless  hosts?  as  light 
As  chaff  before  the  tempest !  though  he  be 
Shut  in  with  guards,  and  by  the  bended  knee 
Be-worshipped,  like  a  God,  thou  still  canst  smite. 
E'en  then,  with  viewless  arm,  and  from  that  height 
Hurl  him  into  the  dust !  for  thou  art  free, 
Boundless,  omnipresent,  like  God,  who  gave 
Thee  for  his  crowning-gift  to  man  :  and  when 
Thouwork'st  with  thy  best  weapon,  Truth's  calm  pen, 
To  punish  and  reform,  exalt  and  save. 
Thou  canst  combine  in  one  the  minds  of  men, 
Which  strength  like  that  of  God,  united  have  ! 


WORLD-MUSIC. 

There  is  a  music  which  I  love  to  hear 

Beyond  all  other  music  'neath  the  sky, 

The  deep  sweet  music  of  Humanity  ; 

Falling  for  ever  on  mine  inward  ear, 

From  ages  past,  and  choristers  now  here 

No  longer,  yet  whose  voices,  sweet  and  high, 

Like  a  "  Te  Deum  "  to  the  Deity, 

Fill  the  wide  world.  His  temple,  far  and  near ! 

Long  had  I,  at  the  gates,  sat  listening, 

Not  daring  yet  to  enter  in,  nor  quite 

Conceiving  whence  those  blessed  sounds  could  spring 

But  now  I,  with  a  concourse  infinite. 

Have  entered  in  at  last,  and  with  them  sing 

And  shout  Hosannas,  worshipping  aright ! 


WHOM  TO  PLEASE. 

True  men  and  upright,  of  whate'er  degree, 
With  sweating  brow,  or  crown  upon  your  head, 
True  sons  of  your  great  Father,  missioned 
20 


To  do  his  work  of  love,  to  bind  and  free, 

Who  like  Saint  I'eter  hold  the  mystic  key; 
Who  work  his  miracles,  but  words  instead 
Of  spells  make  use  of,  quickening  the  dead, 
The  dead  in  soul,  who  deadest  of  all  be  ! 
Dearer  to  me  your  good  opinion  is 
Than  the  poor  plaudits  of  the  ignorant  crowd, 
Groundless  as  hasty,  brief  as  they  are  loud  ; 
For  Conscience,  which  but  echoes  Him  in  this, 
Who  lifts  the  meek  up,  and  puts  down  the  proud, 
Approves  your  sentence,  and  confirms  it  His  ! 


AN  ANSWER. 

A  foolish  dreamer  !  well,  e'en  be  it  so — 
And  yet  I  am  awake,  or,  waking,  dream 
Things  truer,  or  which  so  unto  me  seem, 
Than  those  who  wake  o'  nights  and  no  rest  know. 
Till  they  get  rich,  and  life  for  money  throw 
Away  :  and  Love,  its  crowning  grace  supreme, 
And  God  (Love's  essence,)  openly  blaspheme, 
Mocking  him  in  his  temple  with  vain  show! 
Perhaps  I  dream — I  dream  the  world  is  fair, 
Fairer  than  heart  can  know  or  tongue  can  say  ! 
That  Love  doth  greater  treasures  with  it  bear 
Than  wealth  —  and  that  no  wealth  were    thrown 

away. 
Could  it  a  sense  procure  ye,  though  it  were 
But  of  a  flower's  beauty  for  one  day  ! 


TO  KEATS. 

Thou  art  the  truest  poet,  Keats,  for  thou 

Sing'st  but  for  love,  not  guerdon  :  even  as 

The  lark  in  morning's  ear,  whose  music  was 

And  is,  and  ever  will  be,  still  as  now, 

Unconscious  of  an  effort,  as  the  bough 

Is  of  its  perfume — but  the  world  doth  pass 

Such  by  :  'tis  hard  of  hearing,  and,  alas  ! 

Harder  of  heart,  and  takes  no  count  of  how 

A  poet  lives  and  dies,  till  he  be  gone  ; 

Still,  when  he  asks  for  bread,  it  gives  a  stone ! 

And  accurate  biographers  search  out 

His  life's  least  details,  when  his  name  has  grown 

A  word  of  power,  and  a  light  about 

It  gathered,  that  attends  not  a  King's  throne ! 


HOW  TO  SEEK  TRUTH. 

Before  a  daisy  in  the  grass  I  bend 

My  head  in  awe  :  I  could  not  pluck  it  thence 

Without  a  feeling  of  deep  reverence, 

As  something  God  has  made  for  a  wise  end  I 

My  whole  mind  it  requires  to  comprehend 

The  least  work  of  Divine  Intelligence, 

My  whole  heart,  with  all  feelings  deep,  intense, 

Expression  to  its  loveliness  to  lend ! 

But  not  so  is  it  with  the  works  of  Man 


154 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE -HE  ART  ED. 


On  these  I  boldly  lay  my  hand,  on  creeds 
And  dogmas,  for  these  come  within  my  span — 
Theretorc  with  these  articulate  blasts  1  fan 
The  chaff  of  Custom  from  Truth's  genuine  seeds, 
Like  the  great  wind,  that  where  it  listeth  speeds! 


THE  PURPOSE  OF  A  LIFE. 

E'en  in  my  boyish  days,  ere  yet  a  cloud 

Of  sadness  rested  on  my  path,  except 

To  make  it  brighter,  when  away  'twas  swept 

By  the  strong  breath  of  Hope,  so  gay  and  proud, 

E'en  then  I've  turned  aside  from  the  vain  crowd, 

The  forms  and  ceremonies,  which  intercept 

The  heart's  diviner  beatings,  and  have  wept 

For  suffering  Humanity  aloud  ! 

Aj'e,  even  then  I  made  a  boyish  vow. 

In  Nature's  own  grand  temple  kneeling  down, 

Who  set  her  sign  in  token  on  my  brow, 

That  I  allegiance  only  would  avow 

To  him  who  wears  upon  his  head  the  crown 

Of  genuine  Manhood,  be  he  king  or  clown! 


SELF- GREATNESS. 

The  beggar  s  staff  has  often  wider  sway 
Than  the  king's  sceptre !  higher  empire  far, 
Far  nobler  subjects—  his  own  thoughts,  which  are 
Be?t  ministers  of  good  from  day  to  day  ! 
Content  with  these,  still  ready  to  obey, 
He  in  his  sphere  moves  stilly,  like  a  star 
Which  makes  all  light  about  it,  'bove  the  jar 
Of  earth's  vain  cares,  on  his  eternal  way. 
Till,  thus  become  a  spirit,  spirits  wait 
Upon  him,  ever  round  that  viewless  throne, 
Which  He,  on  passions,  early  taught  to  own 
Wisdom's  supremacy,  has  raised  :  a  state 
Wherein  celestial  powers  have  sway  alone  ; 
Tht  Lord  of  his  own  Soul  is  truly  gi-eat  ! 


ON  SEEING  A  POOR  MAN  TO  WHOM  I  HAD 
GIVEN  CLOTHING. 

I  met  the  old  man  now  so  warmly  clad 

'Gainst  winter,  and,  rejoicing,  asked  him  how 

He  felt— he  answered  "  better,"  while  his  brow 

Kindled  with  gratitude,  as  though  he  had 

Received  the  benefit,  not  /.'   what  bad, 

What  sorry  reckoners  the  rich  must  be 

In  Joy's  arithmetic,  who  unmoved  see 

The  face,  which'they  with  smiles  might  make  io  glad, 

In  sorrow  steeped  !  then  to  myself  I  said. 

The  clothing  warms  not  him,  but  me and  yet 

Not  outwardly,  it  warms  my  heart  instead  I 
Yet  he,  as  though  his  only  were  the  debt, 
Thanks  me  still !  see  \  how  gently  is  man  led 
To  Good,  thus  more  than  all  he  gave  to  get  I 


AMBITION. 

Glory  enough  'twere  for  the  greatest  man 

To  write  what  men  should  in  their  mouths  still  have, 

Day  after  day,  when  he  is  in  his  grave — 

'J'o  be  identified  with  things  of  span 

And  scope  perdurable,  that  since  began 

■J  he  world  high  mention  of  mankind  still  crave  : 

■|  hings  with  a  soul  of  good  in  them  to  save 

'I  hem  from  oblivion,  which  nought  else  can — 

Aye,  glory  'twere  enough  to  write  a  song, 

'I'bat  e'en  the  child  upofi  its  mother's  knee 

Should  love  to  sing,  and  still  remember  long. 

Long  after,  in  the  days  that  are  to  be  ! 

And  which  to  mind  recalling,  he  feels  strong, 

Within,  the  heart  of  his  Humanitie. 


H0PE8  OF  THE  FUTURE. 

We  do  not  work  our  wonders  with  the  sword, 
Dear  Countrymen,  nor  claim  aught  on  such  plea,- 
With  mothers  and  with  children  on  their  knee, 
With  patient  'J'hought,  and  Love,  that  can  afford 
To  suffer,  and  by  suffering  record 
His  power  to  achieve  all  victorie  ; 
With  these,  and  with  whatever  else  may  be 
Gentlest,  and  with  the  power  of  the  Word, 
We  work  our  wonders  which  none  can  gainsay  I 
Unfailingly,  as  from  the  grass  the  flower, 
The  seed  divine  we  scatter  by  the  way, 
Shall  spring,  and  ripen  in  its  destined  hour — 
■J  hen  shout,  ye  Nations,  for  the  harvest-day 
Is  coming,  and  the  Sun  of  Truth  gains  power  ! 


ON  SOME  FLOWERS  ABOUT  A  COTTAGE. 

Oh  sight  beyond  all  others  passing-dear ! 

The  love  of  Nature  is  the  love  of  all 

That's  good,  and  beautiful,  and  rational — 

And  he,  who  has  but  taken  pains  to  rear 

A  rose  about  his  door,  extends  his  sphere 

Of  being  and  enjoyment — he  a  call 

Has  had,  and  caught  the  voice  poetical 

Which  speaks  through  all  her  lovely  works  so  clear. 

And  by  that  rose  she  leads,  in  gentle  guise, 

Him,  by  the  hand,  as  't  were,  upon  the  way. 

And  round  him  all  life's  fair  humanities 

Calls  by  degrees;  for  she  will  not  betray 

'i  he  heart  that  trusts  her,  but,  with  closer  ties, 

Towards  her  draws,  nor  lets  it  go  astray! 

MEANS  OF  CIVILIZATION. 

With  things  of  little  cost,  of  every  day. 
As  common  as  kind  words  and  gentle  looks, 
And  daily  greetings,  and  familiar  books. 
That  teach  us  wisdom  while  it  seems  but  play; 
With  means  at  hand  still  by  life's  daily  way, 
As  natural  as  flowers  by  the  brooks, 


VOFCES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


155 


As  pleasant  as  field-paths  thro'  sylvan  nooks, 

And  sn  cheap  that  the  poorest  can  defray 

The  expense  thereof :  with  these  and  things  like  these, 

We  work  our  wonders  by  the  fireside  : 

Our  magic-charms,  the  kiss  of  love  and  peace  ; 

Our  magic-circles,  small  at  first,  but  wide 

Enough  at  last  to  grasp  the  world  with  ease, 

Hji/ies,  where  God,  as  in  temples,  doth  reside  ! 

THE  HEART'S  PLACES  OF  WORSHIP. 

How  many  shrines,  for  its  affections  there 

To  dwell,  as  in  a  temple,  can  the  heart 

Of  man  for  itself  make,  with  little  art, 

E'en  of  the  simplest  things  !  how  passing  fair 

Seem  to  us  all  the  spots,  so  cherished,  where 

We  passed  our  boyish  days  :  ere  sorrow's  smart 

Had  touched,  or  we  had  bartered  in  life's  mart. 

Our  heart's  affections  for  a  paltry  share 

Of  the  world's  gold  or  favour — e'en  the  stone 

We  sat  on  by  the  stream-side,  in  our  bliss 

Far  richer  than  we  since  through  gold  have  grown, 

Seems  to  us  in  our  inmost  hearts  all  this 

Revolving,  far  far  better  than  a  throne, 

Whose  feet,  not  innocent  brooks,  but  false  hps  kiss  ! 


THE  SCOTTISH  REFORMERS. 

BY  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

I  have  just  been  conversing  with  an  aged  gentle 
man,  who  has  called  my  attention  to  the  details 
furnished  by  late  British  papers,  of  the  laying  of  the 
corner-stone  of  a  monument  in  honor  of  the  politi- 
cal reformers,  who  were  banished  in  1793  to  the 
convict-colony  of  Botany  Bay.  My  friend  was  in 
Edinburgh  at  the  end  of  their  trial ,  and,  although 
quite  young  at  that  period,  distinctly  remembers 
their  appearance,  and  the  circumstances  preceding 
their  arrest.  1  knownot  that  I  can  occupy  a  leisure 
evening  better,  than  in  compiling  a  brief  account  of 
the  character  and  fate  of  these  men,  whose  names 
even  are  unknown  to  the  present  generation  in  tliis 
country. 

The  impulse  of  the  French  Revolution  was  not 
confined  by  geographical  boundaries.  Flashing  hope 
into  the  dark  places  of  the  earth,  far  down  among 
the  poor  and  long  oppressed,  or  startling  the  oppres- 
sor in  his  guarded  chambers,  like  that  mountain  of 
fire  which  fell  into  the  sea  at  the  sound  of  the  .\po- 
calyptic  trumpet,  it  agitated  the  world. 

The  arguments  of  Condorcet,  the  battle-words  of 
Mirabeau,  the  indomitable  zeal  of  St.  Just,  the  iron 
energy  of  Danton,  the  caustic  wit  of  Camille  Des- 
moulins  and  Gaudet,  and  the  sweet  eloquence  of 
Vergniaud,  found  echoes  in  all  lands  ;  and  nowhere 
more  readily  than  in  Great  Britain,  the  ancient  foe 


and  rival  of  France.  The  celebrated  Dr.  Price  of 
London,  and  the  still  more  distinguished  Priestley 
of  Birmingham,  spoke  out  boldly  in  defence  of  the 
great  principles  of  the  Revolution.  A  London  club 
of  reformers,  reckoning  among  its  members  such 
men  as  Sir  William  Jones,  Earl  Grey,  Samuel 
Whitebread  and  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  was  esta- 
blished for  the  purpose  of  disseminating  demo- 
cratic appeals  and  arguments  throughout  the  United 
Kingdom. 

Tn  Scotland  an  auxiliary  society  was  formed,  under 
the  name  of  "  Friends  of  the  People."  Thomas 
Muir,  young  in  years,  yet  an  elder  in  the  Scottish 
kirk,  a  successful  advocate  at  the  bar,  talented,  affa- 
ble, eloquent,  and  distinguished  for  the  purity  of  his 
life,  and  his  enthusiasm  in  the  cause  of  Freedom, 
was  its  principal  originator.  In  the  12th  month  of 
1792,  a  Convention  of  Reformers  was  held  at  Edin- 
burgh. The  government  became  alarmed,  and  a 
warrant  was  issued  for  the  arrest  of  Muir.  He  es- 
caped to  France,  but  soon  after,  venturing  to  return 
to  his  native  land,  was  recognized  and  imprisoned. 
He  was  tried  upon  the  charge  of  lending  books  of 
republican  tendency,  and  reading  an  address  from 
Theobald  Wolf  Tone  and  the  United  Irishmen  before 
the  society  of  which  he  was  a  member.  He  defend- 
ed himself  in  a  long  and  eloquent  address,  which 
concluded  in  the  following  noble  and  manly  strain 

"  What,  then,  has  been  my  crime  ^  Not  the  lend- 
ing to  a  relation  a  copy  of  Thomas  Fame's  works— 
not  the  giving  away  to  another  a  few  numbers  of  an 
innocent  and  constitutional  publication — but  my 
crime  is  for  having  dared  to  be,  according  to  the 
measure  of  my  feeble  abilities,  a  strenuous  and  an 
active  advocate  for  an  equal  representation  of  the 
people  in  the  House  of  the  People— for  having  dared 
to  accomplish  a  measure,  by  legal  means,  which  was 
to  diminish  the  weight  of  their  taxes,  and  to  put  an 
end  to  the  profusion  of  their  blood.  Gentlemen, 
from  my  infancy  to  this  moment,  I  have  devoted 
myself  to  the  cause  of  the  people.  Tt  is  a  good 
cause— it  shall  ultimately  prevail — it  shall  finally 
triumph." 

He  was  sentenced  to  transportation  for  fourteen 
years,  and  was  removed  to  the  Edinburgh  jail,  from 
thence  to  the  hulks,  and  lastly  to  the  transport  ship, 
containing  eighty-three  convicts,  which  conveyed 
him  to  Botany  Bay. 

The  next  victim  was  Palmer,  a  learned  and  high 
ly  accomplished  Unitarian  minister  in  Dundee.  He 
was  greatly  beloved  and  respected  as  a  polished  gen- 
tleman and  sincere  friend  of  the  people.  He  was 
charged  with  circulating  a  republican  tract,  and  was 
sentenced  to  seven  years'  transportation. 

But  the  friends  of  the  people  were  not  quelled  by 
this  summary  punishment  of  two  of  their  devoted 
leaders.  In  the  10th  month,  1793,  delegates  were 
called  together  from  various  towns  in  Scotland,  as 
well  as  from  Birmingham,  Sheffield,  and  other  places 


156 


VOICES   OF    THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


in  England.  Gerrald  and  Margarot  were  sent  up  by 
the  London  society.  After  a  brief  sitting,  the  Con- 
vention was  dispersed  by  the  public  authorities,  its 
sessions  were  opened  and  closed  with  prayer,  and 
the  speeches  of  its  members  manifested  the  pious 
enthusiasm  of  the  old  Cameroneans  and  Parliament 
men  of  the  times  of  Cromwell.  Many  of  the  dis- 
senting clergy  were  present.  William  Skirving,  the 
most  determined  of  the  band,  had  been  educated  for 
the  ministry,  and  was  a  sincerely  religious  man ; 
while  Joseph  Gerrald — young,  brilliant,  and  beaiiti. 
ful  in  his  life  and  character— came  up  to  join  the 
puritans  of  Scotland  in  his  sober  garb,  with  his  long 
hair  falling  over  his  shoulders,  in  primitive  simpli- 
city. When  the  Sheriff  entered  the  hall  to  disperse 
the  friends  of  liberty,  Gerrald  knelt  in  prayer.  His 
remarkable  words  were  taken  down  by  a  reporter 
on  the  spot.  There  is  nothing  in  modern  history  to 
compare  with  this  supplication,  unless  it  be  that  of 
Sir  Henry  Vane,  a  kindred  martyr,  at  the  foot  of  the 
scaffold,  just  before  his  execution.  Gerrald's  lan- 
guage was  as  follows;  and  under  the  circumstances 
it  is  no  marvel  that  his  auditors  ascribed  to  him 
superhuman  power.  It  is  the  prayer  of  universal 
humanity,  which  God  will  yet  hear  and  answer. 

"  0  thou  Governor  of  the  Universe!  we  rejoice 
that,  at  all  times  and  in  all  circumstances,  we  have 
liberty  to  approach  Thy  throne ;  and  that  we  are 
assured,  that  no  sacrifice  is  more  acceptable  to  Thee, 
than  that  which  is  made  for  the  relief  of  the  oppress- 
ed. In  this  moment  of  trial  and  persecution,  we 
pray  that  Thou  wouldst  be  our  defender,  our  coun- 
sellor, and  our  guide.  0,  be  Thou  a  pillar  of  fire  to 
us,  as  Thou  wast  to  our  fathers  of  old,  to  enlighten 
and  direct  us  ;  and  to  our  enemies  a  pillar  of  cloud, 
and  darkness,  and  confusion. 

"Thou  art  thyself  the  great  patron  of  liberty. 
Thy  service  is  perfect  freedom.  Prosper,  we  be- 
seech Thee,  every  endeavor  which  we  make  to  pro- 
mote Thy  cause,  for  we  consider  the  cause  of  truth, 
or  every  cause  which  tends  to  promote  the  happi- 
ness of  thy  creatures,  as  Thy  cause. 

"  0  Thou  merciful  Father  of  mankind,  enable  us 
for  Thy  name's  sake  to  endure  persecution  with  for- 
titude ;  and  may  we  believe  that  all  trials  and  tribu- 
lations of  life,  which  we  endure,  shall  work  together 
for  good  of  them  that  love  Thee ;  and  grant  that 
the  greater  the  evil,  and  the  longer  it  may  be  con- 
tinued, the  greater  good,  in  thy  holy  and  adorable 
providence,  may  be  produced  therefrom.  And  this 
we  beg,  not  for  our  own  merits,  but  through  the 
merits  of  Him  who  is  hereafter  to  judge  the  world 
in  righteousness  and  mercy." 

He  ceased.  The  sheriff,  who  had  been  tempora- 
rily overawed  by  the  extraordinary  scene,  enforced 
his  warrant,  and  the  meeting  was  broken  up.  The 
delegates  descended  to  the  street  in  silence — Arthur's 
seat  and  Salisbury  crags  glooming  in  the  distance 
and  night— an  immense  and  af.'.itat<'ci  nnillituih'  wait- 


ing around,  over  which  tossed  the  flaring  flambeaux 
of  the  sheriff's  train.  Gerrald,  who  was  already 
under  arrest,  as  he  descended,  spoke  aloud  :  "  Behold 
the  funeral  torches  of  Liberty!" 

Skirving  and  several  others  were  immediately 
arrested.  They  were  tried  in  the  1st  month,  1794, 
and  sentenced,  as  Muir  and  Palmer  had  previously 
been,  to  transportation.  Their  conduct  throughout 
was  worthy  of  their  great  and  holy  cause.  Gerrald's 
defence  was  that  of  Freedom  rather  than  his  own. 
Forgetting  himself,  he  spoke  out  manfully  and  ear- 
nestly for  the  poor,  the  oppressed,  the  overtaxed 
and  starving  millions  of  his  countrymen.  That 
some  idea  may  be  formed  of  this  noble  plea  for 
Liberty,  I  give  an  extract  from  the  concluding  para- 
graphs : 

"  True  religion,  like  all  free  governments,  appeals 
to  the  understanding  for  its  support,  and  not  to  the 
sword.  All  systems,  whether  civil  or  moral,  can 
only  be  durable  in  proportion  as  they  are  founded 
on  truth,  and  calculated  to  promote  the  c:ood  of 
1IANKIN11.  This  will  account  to  us  why  governments 
suited  to  the  great  energies  of  man  have  always  out- 
lived the  perishable  things  which  despotism  has 
erected.  Yes  I  this  will  account  to  us  why  the 
stream  of  time,  which  is  continually  washing  away 
the  dissoluble  fabrics  of  superstitions  and  impos- 
tures, pusses,  without  injury,  by  the  adamant  of 
("hristianity. 

"  Those  who  are  versed  in  the  history  of  their 
country,  in  the  history  of  the  human  race,  must 
know  that  rigorous  state  prosecutions  have  always 
preceded  the  era  of  convulsion  ;  and  this  era,  I  fear, 
will  be  accelerated  by  the  folly  and  madness  of  our 
rulers.  If  the  people  are  discontented,  the  proper 
mode  of  quieting  their  discontent  is,  not  by  insti- 
tuting rigorous  and  sanguinary  prosecutions,  but  by 
redressing  their  wrongs,  and  conciliating  their  affec- 
tions. Courts  of  justice,  indeed,  may  be  called  in 
to  the  aid  of  ministerial  vengeance;  but  if  once  the 
purity  of  their  proceedings  is  suspected,  they  will 
cease  to  be  objects  of  reverence  to  the  nation ; 
they  will  degenerate  into  empty  and  expensive 
pageantry,  and  become  the  partial  instruments  of 
vexatious  oppression.  Whatever  may  become  of 
me,  my  principles  will  last  lor  ever.  Individuals 
may  perish  ;  but  truth  is  eternal.  The  rude  blasts 
of  tyranny  may  blow  from  every  quarter ;  but  free- 
dom is  that  hardy  plant  which  will  survive  the  tem- 
pest, and  strike  an  everlasting  root  into  the  most 
unfavorable  soil. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  in  your  hands.  About  my  life 
I  feel  not  the  slightest  anxiety  ;  if  it  would  promote 
the  cause,  I  would  cheerfully  make  the  sacrifice; 
for,  if  I  perish  on  an  occasion  like  the  present,  out 
of  my  ashes  will  arise  a  flame  to  consume  the  tyrants 
and  oppressors  of  my  country." 

None  of  the  Edinburgh  reformers,  as  I  understand 
fiiMii  my  iMforni;int,    li\t>d   to  return  to  tlicir  native 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


7"T  V  K-T-, 


land.  They  perished,  one  after  another,  undertthe 
severe  discipline  of  colonial  servitude.  The  na  ure 
of  this  seemingly  lenient  punishment  is  not  always 
understood  in  this  country.  Judging  from  accounts 
given  of  it  by  returning  convicts,  (not  always  per- 
haps reliable  authority)  it  has  few  redeeming  fea- 
tures, even  as  contrasted  with  the  worst  condition 
of  negro  slavery.  The  convicts  are  brought  to  the 
barracks  in  long  lines,  and  the  farmers  and  sheep 
owners  from  the  country  walk  round  among  them 
to  select  for  purchase  such  as  may  suit  their  pur- 
poses— examine  them  as  a  horse  dealer  would  a 
horse — compel  them  to  run,  hold  up  their  legs  and 
arms,  strike  them  on  their  chest  and  back  to  prove 
their  soundness  in  breath  and  lungs — and,  if  the  scru- 
tiny is  satisfactory,  purchase  them,  and  take  them 
to  their  respective  plantations  and  sVieep-farms.  In 
some  of  the  remoter  districts  even  the  grave,  the 
common  refuge  of  the  weary  and  suffering,  is  clothed 
with  unwonted  attributes  of  terror,  and  repugnance. 
No  prayer  is  breathed  over  it ;  none  of  the  rites  of 
reverence  and  religion  make  holy  the  convict's  buri- 
al— the  scream  of  the  wild  fowl  and  the  wash  of 
waves  on  a  strange  coast,  are  his  only  requiem. 

Years  have  passed,  and  the  generation  which  knew 
the  persecuted  reformers  has  given  place  to  another. 
And  now,  half  a  century  after  William  Skirving,  as 
he  rose  to  receive  his  sentence,  declared  to  his 
judges  : — "  You  may  condemn   us  as  felons,   but 

TOUR  SENTENCE  SHALt.  YET  BE  REVERSED  BY  THE 

people" — the  names  of  these  men  are  once  more 
familiar  to  British  lips.  The  sentence  has  been  re- 
versed :  the  prophecy  of  Skirving  has  hecome  his- 
tory. On  the  21st  of  the  8th  month  last,  the  corner 
stone  of  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  the  Scottish 
martyrs,  for  which  subscriptions  had  been  received 
from  such  men  as  Lord  Holland,  the  Dukes  of  Bed- 
ford and  Norfolk,  and  theEarlsof  Essex  and  Leices- 
ter— was  laid  with  imposing  ceremonies,  in  the 
beautiful  burial-place  of  Calton  Hill,  Edinburgh,  by 
the  veteran  reformer  and  tribune  of  the  people, 
Joseph  Hume,  M.  P.  After  delivering  an  appropri- 
ate address,  the  aged  Radical  closed  the  impressive 
scene  by  reading  the  soul-inspiring  prayer  of  Joseph 
Gerrald.  At  the  banquet  which  afterwards  took 
place,  and  which  was  presided  over  by  John  Dunlop, 
Esq.,  addresses  were  made  by  the  President,  and 
Dr.  Ritchie,  well  known  to  American  abolitionists 
for  their  zeal  in  the  cause  of  the  slave,  and  by  Wil- 
liam Skirving  of  Kirkaldy,  son  of  the  martyr.  The 
Complete  Suffrage  Association  of  Edinburgh,  to  the 
number  of  five  hundred,  walked  in  procession  to 
Calton  Hill,  and  in  the  open  air  proclaimed  unmo- 
lested the  very  principles  for  which  the  martyrs  of 
the  past  century  had  suffered. 

The  account  of  this  tribute  to  the  memory  of  de- 
parted worth,  cannot  fail  to  awaken  in  generous 
hearts  emotions  of  gratitude  towards  Him  who  has 
thus  signally  vindicated  His  truth,  showing  that  the 


triumph  of  the  oppressor  is  butylpryO  season 7  and 
that  even  in  this  world  a  lie  cannftt^we  for  ever. 
Well  and  truly  did  George  Fox  say  in  hl»  last  days  : 
"  The  Truth  is  above  all  I" 

Will  it  be  said,  however,  that  this  tribute  comes 
too  late  ?  That  it  cannot  solace  those  brave  hearts, 
which,  slowly  broken  by  the  long  agony  of  colonial 
servitude,  are  now  cold  in  strange  graves?  It  is, 
indeed,  a  striking  illustration  of  the  truth  that  he 
who  would  benefit  his  fellow-man  must  "  walk  by 
faith  ;"  sowing  his  seed  in  the  morning,  and  in  the 
evening  withholding  not  his  hand,  knowing  only  this, 
that  in  God's  good  time  the  harvest  shall  spring  up 
and  ripen,  if  not  for  himself  yet  for  others,  who,  as 
they  bind  the  full  sheaves  and  gather  in  the  heavy 
clusters,  may  perchance  remember  him  with  grati- 
tude, and  set  up  stones  of  memorial  on  the  fields  of 
his  toil  and  sacrifices.  We  may  regret  that  in  this 
stage  of  the  spirit's  life,  the  sincere  and  self-denying 
worker  is  not  always  permitted  to  partake  of  the 
fruits  of  his  toil,  or  receive  the  honors  of  a  bene- 
factor. We  hear  his  good  evil-spoken  of,  and  bis 
noblest  sacrifices  counted  as  nought, — we  see  him 
not  only  assailed  by  the  wicked,  but  discountenanced 
and  shunned  by  the  timidly  good,  followed  on 
his  hot  and  dusty  pathway  by  the  execrations  of  the 
hounding  mob,  and  the  contemptuous  pity  of  the 
worldly-wise  and  prudent ;  and,  when  at  last  the 
horizon  of  Time  shuts  down  between  him  and  our- 
selves, and  the  places  which  have  known  him  know 
him  no  more  for  ever,  we  are  almost  ready  to  say 
with  the  regal  voluptuary  of  old  :  "This  also  is 
vanity  and  a  great  evil  ;  for  what  hath  a  man  of  all 
his  labor  and  of  the  vexation  of  his  heart,  wherein 
he  hath  labored  under  the  sun?"  But  is  this  the 
end  ]  Has  God's  universe  no  wider  limits  than  the 
circle  of  the  blue  wall  which  shuts  in  our  nestling- 
place  ?  Has  Life's  infancy  only  been  provided  for  ; 
and  beyond  tliis  poor  nursery-chamber  of  Time  is 
there  no  playground  for  the  soul's  youth,  no  broad 
fields  for  its  manhood  ? — Perchance  could  we  but 
lift  the  curtains  of  the  narrow  pin-fold  wherein  we 
dwell,  we  might  see  that  our  poor  friend  and  bro. 
ther  whose  fate  we  have  thus  deplored,  has  by  no 
means  lost  the  reward  of  his  labors,  but  that  in  new 
fields  of  duty  he  is  cheered  even  by  the  tardy  recog- 
tion  of  the  value  of  his  services  in  the  old.  The 
continuity  of  life  is  never  broken  ;  the  river  flows 
onward  and  is  lost  to  our  sight,  but  under  its  new 
horizon  it  carries  the  same  waters  which  it  gather- 
ed under  ours  ;  and  its  unseen  valleys  are  made  glad 
by  the  offerings  which  are  borne  down  to  them  from 
the  Past,  flowers,  perchance,  the  germs  of  which  its 
own  waves  had  planted  on  the  banks  of  Time, — 
Who  shall  say  that  the  mournful  and  repentant  love 
with  which  the  benefactors  of  our  race  are  at  length 
regarded,  may  not  be  to  them  in  their  new  condi- 
tion of  being,  sweet  and  grateful  as  the  perfume  of 
long  forgotten   flowers ;  or  that  our  harvest  hymns 


158 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


of  rejoicing  may  not  reach  the  ears  of  those  who 
in  weakness  and  suffering  scattered  the  seeds  of 
blessing  1 

The  history  of  the  Edinburgh  reformers  is  no 
new  one;  it  is  that  of  all  who  seek  to  benefit  their 
age  by  rebuking  its  popular  crimes  and  exposing  its 
cherished  errors.  The  truths  which  they  told  were 
not  believed,  and  for  that  very  reason  were  the  more 
needed,  for  it  is  evermore  the  case  that  the  right 
word,  when  first  uttered,  is  an  unpopular  and  denied 
one.  Hence  he  who  undertakes  to  tread  the  thorny 
pathway  of  Reform  ;  who,  smitten  with  the  love  of 
truth  and  justice,  or  indignant  in  view  of  wrong, 
and  insolent  oppression,  is  rashly  inclined  to  throw 
himself  at  once  into  that  great  conflict,  which  the 
Persian  seer  not  untruly  represented  as  a  war  be- 
tween light  and  darkness,  would  do  well  to  count 
the  cost  in  the  outset.  If  he  can  live  for  Truth  alone, 
and,  cut  off  from  the  general  sympathy,  regard  her 
service  as  its  "own  exceeding  great  reward;"  if  he 
can  bear  to  be  counted  a  fanatic  and  crazy  visionary ; 
if  in  all  good  nature  he  is  ready  to  receive  from  the 
very  objects  of  his  solicitude,  abuse  and  obloquy,  in 
return  for  disinterested  and  self-sacrificing  efforts 
for  their  welfare;  if  with  his  purest  motives  misun- 
derstood, and  his  best  actions  perverted  and  distort- 
ed into  crimes,  he  can  still  hold  on  his  way,  and 
patiently  abide  the  hour  when  "  the  whirlgig  of  time 
shall  bring  about  its  revenges;"  if  on  the  whole,  he 
is  prepared  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  moral  out- 
law or  social  heretic,  under  good  society's  interdict 
of  food  and  fire  ;  and  if  he  is  well  assured  that  he 
can  through  all  this  preserve  his  cheerfulness,  and 
faith  in  man, — -let  him  gird  up  his  loins  and  go  for- 
ward in  God's  name.  He  is  fitted  for  his  vocation  ; 
he  has  watched  all  night  by  his  armor.  Whatever 
his  trial  may  be.  he  is  prepared;  he  may  even  be 
happily  disappointed  in  respect  to  it ;  flowers  of  un- 
expected refreshing  may  overhang  the  hedges  of  his 
straight  and  narrow  way ;  but  it  remains  to  be  true 
that  he  who  serves  his  contemporaraies  in  faithful- 
ness and  sincerity  must  expect  no  wages  from  their 
gratitude.  For,  as  has  been  well  said,  there  is  after 
all  but  one  way  of  doing  the  world  good,  and  un- 
happily that  way  the  world  does  not  like,  for  it  con- 
sists in  telling  it  the  very  thing  which  it  does  not 
wish  to  hear. 

Unhappily  in  the  case  of  the  reformer,  his  most 
dangerous  foes  are  those  of  his  own  household. 
True,  the  world's  garden  has  become  a  desert,  and 
needs  renovation,  but,  is  his  own  little  nook  weed- 
less  ?  Sin  abounds  without,  but  is  his  own  heart 
pure?  While  smiting  down  the  giants  and  dragons 
which  beset  the  outward  world,  are  there  no  evil 
guests  sitting  by  his  own  hearth-stone?  Ambition, 
envy,  self- righteousness  impatience,  dogmatism, 
and  pride  of  opinion,  stand  at  his  doorway,  ready  to 
enter,  whenever  he  leaves  it  unguarded  Then  too, 
there  is  no   small  danjrer  of  failin;/  to   discriminate 


between  a  rational  philanthropy  with  its  adaptation 
of  means  to  ends,  and  that  spiritual  knight-errantry 
which  undertakes  the  championship  of  every  novel 
project  of  reform,  scouring  the  world  in  search  of 
distressed  schemes  held  in  durance  by  common 
sense,  and  vagaries  happily  spell-bound  by  ridicule. 
He  must  learn  that,  although  the  most  needful  truth 
may  be  unpopular,  it  does  not  follow  that  unpopu- 
larity is  a  proof  of  the  truth  of  his  doctrines  or  the 
expediency  of  his  measures.  He  must  have  the  li- 
berality to  admit  that  it  is.  barely  possible  for  the 
public,  on  some  points,  to  be  right  and  himself 
wrong  ;  and  that  the  blessing  invoked  upon  those 
who  suffer  for  righteousness,  is  not  available  to  such 
as  court  persecution,  and  invite  contempt.  For  folly 
has  its  martyrs  as  well  as  wisdom  ;  and  he  who  has 
nothing  better  to  show  of  himself  than  the  scars  and 
bruises  which  the  popular  foot  has  left  upon  him,  is 
not  even  sure  of  winning  the  honors  of  martyrdom 
as  some  compensation  for  the  loss  of  dignity  and 
self-respect  involved  in  the  exhibition  of  its  pains. 
To  the  reformer,  in  an  especial  manner,  comes  home 
the  truth  that  whoso  ruleth  his  own  spirit  is  greater 
than  him  who  tuketh  a  city.  Patience,  hope,  cha- 
rity, watchfulness  unto  prayer,  how  needful  are  all 
these  to  his  success  !  Without  them,  he  is  in  dan- 
ger of  ingloriously  giving  up  his  contest  with  error 
and  prejudice  at  the  first  repulse  ;  or,  witti  that  spite- 
ful philanthropy  which  we  sometimes  witness, 
taking  a  sick  world  by  the  nose,  like  a  spoiled  child, 
and  endeavoring  to  force  down  its  throat  the  long 
rejected  nostrums  prepared  for  its  relief. 

What  then  I — Shall  we,  in  view  of  these  things 
call  back  young,  generous  spirits,  just  entering  upon 
the  perilous  pathway  '>.  God  forbid  ! — Welcome, 
thrice  welcome,  rather.  Let  them  go  forward,  not 
unwarned  of  the  dangers,  nor  unreminded  of  ttie 
pleasures  which  belong  to  the  service  of  humanity. 
Great  is  the  consciousness  of  right.  Sweet  is  ti.e 
answer  of  a  good  conscience.  He.  who  pays  his 
whole-hearted  homage  to  Truth  and  Duty — who 
swears  his  life  long  fealty  on  their  altars,  and  rises 
up  a  Nazarite  consecrated  to  their  holy  service, — is 
not  without  his  solace  and  enjoyment,  when,  to  the 
eyes  of  others,  he  seems  the  most  lonely  and  miser- 
able. He  breathes  an  atmosphere  which  the  multi- 
tude know  not  of-^"  a  serene  heaven  which  they 
cannot  discern  rests  over  him,  glorious  in  its  purity 
and  stillness."  Nor  is  be  altogether  without  kindly 
human  sympathies.  All  generous  and  earnest  hearts 
which  are  brought  in  contact  with  his  own  beat 
evenly  with  it.  All  that  is  good  and  truthful  and 
lovely  in  man,  whenever  and  wherever  it  truly  re- 
cognizes him,  must  sooner  or  later  acknowledge  his 
claim  to  lovf.  and  reverence.  His  faith  overcomes 
all  things,  'i'he  future  unrolls  itself  before  him, 
with  its  waving  harvest-fields  springing  up  from  the 
seed  he  is  scattering  ;  and  he  looks  forward  to  the 
close  of  life  with   the  calm   confidence  of  one  v.ho 


VOICES    OF     ni  E   TR  [J  E  -  H  EA  R  T  E  D. 


159 


feels  that  he  has  not  lived  idle  and  useless ;  but,  with 
hopeful  heart  and  strung  arm  has  laliored  with  (lod 
and  nature  for  the  Best. 

And  not  in  rain.  In  tlie  economy  ol  (Jod,  no  el- 
fort  however  small,  put  I'oi  th  lor  the  right  cause, 
fails  of  its  effect.  No  voice,  however  feeble,  lifted 
up  for  Truth,  ever  dies  amidst  the  confused  noises 
of  Time.  Through  discords  of  Sin  and  Sorrow, 
Pain,  and  Wrong,  it  rises  a  deathless  melody,  whose 
notes  of  wailing  are  hereafter  to  be  changed  to  those 
of  triumph,  as  they  blend  with  the  Great  Harmony 
of  a  reconciled  universe.  The  language  of  a  trans- 
atlantic reformer,  to  his  friends,  is  then  as  true  as 
it  is  hopeful  and  cheering:  "  Triumph  is  certain. 
We  have  espoused  no  losing  cause.  la  the  body  we 
may  not  join  our  shout  with  the  victors — but  in 
spirit  we  may  even  now.  'J'here  is  but  an  interval 
of  time  between  us  and  the  success  at  which  we  aim. 
In  all  other  respects  the  links  of  the  chain  are  com- 
plete. Identifying  ourselves  with  immortal  and  im- 
mutable principles,  we  share  both  their  immortality 
and  immutability.  The  vow  which  unites  us  with 
truth  makes  futurity  present  with  us.  Our  being 
resolves  itself  into  an  everlasting  now.  It  is  not  so 
correct  to  say  that  we  nhall  he  victorious,  as  that  we 
are  so.  When  we  will  in  unison  with  the  Supreme 
Mind,  the  characteristics  of  his  will  become,  in 
some  sort,  those  of  ours.  What  he  has  willed  is 
virtually  done.  It  may  take  ages  to  unfold  itself, 
but  the  germ  of  its  whole  history  is  wrapped  up  in 
his  determination.  When  we  make  his  will  ours, 
which  we  do  when  vve  aim  at  truth,  that  upon  which 
we  are  resolved  is  done — decided — born.  Life  is  in 
it.  It  is — and  the  future  is  bat  the  development  of 
its  being.  Ours,  therefore,  is  a  perpetual  triumph. 
Our  deeds  are  all  of  them  component  elements  of 
success."* 


THE    SLAVE'S    DREAM. 

BY    HENRY    W.     LONGFELLOV/. 

Beside  the  ungathered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  in  his  hand  ; 
His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 

Was  buried  in  the  sand. 
Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep, 

He  saw  his  native  land. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 

I'he  lordly  Niger  flowed  ; 
Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 

Once  more  a  king  he  strode  ; 
And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 

Descend  the  mountain  road. 

»  Mial's  Essays  ;  Non- Conformist,  Vol.  IV. 


He  saw  once  mort;  his  dark  Vyed-queen 

Among  her  children  stand  ; 
They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks, 

'i  hey  held  him  by  the  hand! — 
A  tear  burst  from  the  sleeper's  lids 
,      And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 

Along  the  Niger's  bank  ; 
His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains, 

And,  with  a  martial  clank, 
At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of  steel 

Smiting  his  stallion's  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a  blood-red  flag, 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew; 
From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight, 

O'er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew, 
Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts, 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 

At  night  he  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hy.i-na  scream. 
And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 

Beside  some  hidden  stream  ; 
And  it  passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums, 

Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues. 

Shouted  of  liberty ; 
And  the  blast  of  the  desert  cried  aloud, 

With  a  voice  so  wild  and  free, 
That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 

At  their  tempestuous  glee. 

He  did  not  feel  the  driver's  whip, 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day  ; 
For  death  had  illumined  the  land  of  sleep. 

And  his  lifeless  body  lay 
A  worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 

Had  broken  and  thrown  away  '. 


MISSIONARY  HYMN,  FOR  THE  SOUTH. 

Spread  far  the  gospel  tidings  I 

Call  ocean,  earth,  and  air, 
To  aid  your  ceaseless  labor 

To  spread  them  everywhere, 
"Sane  in  the  bondmaii' s  cabin — 

Let  them  not  enter  there  ! 

Send  Bibles  to  the  heathen  I 

On  ev'ry  distant  shore. 
From  light  that's  beaming  o'er  us, 

Let  streams  increasing  pour ; — 
But  keep  it  from  the  millions, 

Down-trodden  at  our  door  .' 


160 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


Send  Biblps  to  the  heathen, 
Their  famish'd  spirits  feed  I 

Oh  I  haste,  and  join  your  efforts, 
The  priceless  gift  to  speed  ! 

Then  Jing  the  treinhling  bondman. 
If  he  shall  learn  to  read  .' 

Let  love  of  filthy  lucre 
Not  in  your  bosoms  dwell ; 

Your  money,  on  your  mission, 
Will  be  expended  well  ; — 

And  then  to  Jill  your  coffers. 
Husbands  and  fathers  sell! 

Have  even  little  children 
All  tliey  can  gain  to  save, 

For  teachers  of  the  heathen. 
Beyond  the  ocean  wave  ; 

Then  give  to  fire  and  faggot , 
Him  who  would  teach  your  slave  ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

BY    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

Into  the  sunshine, 

Full  of  the  light, 
Leaping  and  flashing 

From  morn  till  night ! 

Into  the  moonlight. 

Whiter  than  snow. 
Waving  so  flower-like 

When  the  winds  blow ! 

Into  the  starlight 

Rushing  in  spray, 
Happy  at  midnight, 

Happy  by  day  ! 

Ever  in  motion, 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward, 

Never  aweary; — 

Glad  of  all  weathers. 

Still  seeming  best. 
Upward  or  downward, 

Motion  thy  rest; — 

Full  of  a  nature 

Nothing  can  tame. 
Changed  every  moment, 

Ever  the  same  ; — 

Ceaseless  aspiring, 

Ceaseless  content, 
Darkness  or  sunshine 

Thy  element ; 

Glorious  fountain ! 
Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 
Upward,  like  thee  ! 


MAIDENHOOD. 

BY    HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

Maiden!  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies, 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

Thou,  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet. 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet ! 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet  ? 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance. 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse  ; 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem. 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then,  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafend  by  the  cataract's  roar? 

0,  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  quicksands — Life  hath  snares  I 

Care  and  age  come  unawares ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon. 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered; — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snow  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear,  through  sorrow,  wrong  and  ruth. 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth. 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

0,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds,  that  cannot  heal. 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal  ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


VOICES  or  THE  TRUE  HEAllTED. 


THE  HYMN  OF  THE  DEW. 
I  know  what  the  dew  sang  as  down  to  the  folds 

Of  the  silken  rose  it  fell ; 
'Twas  not  for  the  ear,  but  the  musing  heart, 

In  the  twilight,  heard  it  well. 

There  came  no  words — you  might  listen  long 

And  say  that  you  only  heard 
The  trill  of  the  harp  in  the  waving  grass, 

And  the  tune  of  the  evening  bird. 

But  a  song  it  sang,  and  I  raught  it  well 
As  it  shone  in  the  white  moon's  rays  : 

It  was  sweet  as  the  breast  whereon  it  lay, 
And  the  burden  aye  was  praise. 

It  was  not  meant  for  the  perfumed  rose, 

The  belle  of  the  summer  bower  ; 
'Twas  not  for  the  star  that,  silver  bright. 

Looked  into  the  heart  of  the  flower  : 

The  praise  was  all  for  the  Holiest — 

And  the  garden  knew  the  tone, 
When  the  earth  was  one  full  cup  of  bliss, 

And  the  Lord  was  God  alone. 

Not  such  are  the  passionate  words  of  song 

That  men  to  their  idol  speak, 
Thrilling  the  nerves  and  bringing  the  tears 

And  leaving  the  strong  one  \veak. 

it  stirred  not  even  the  pollen-dust 

As  it  gently  floated  through. 
And  it  lay  on  my  heart  like  peace  all  night,- 

That  hymn  of  the  holy  dew  ! 

SONGS  BY  "BARRY  CORNWALL.'* 

HERMIONE. 

Thou  hast  beauty  bright  and  fair. 

Manner  noble,  aspect  free, 
Eyes  that  are  untouched  by  care  : 

What  then  do  we  ask  from  thee  ?' 
Hermione,  Hermione  7 
Thou  hast  reason  quick  and  strong, 

Wit  that  envious  men  admire. 
And  a  voice,  itself  a  song  !  ,> 

What  then  can  we  still  desire  ?  _  _ 
Hermione,  Herndone  7 

Something  thou  dost  want,  0  queen ! 

(As  the  gold  doth  ask  alloy). 
Tears,  amid  thy  laughter  seen. 
Pity  mingling  with  thy  joy. 

This  is  all  wc  ask  from  thee, 
Hermione,  Hcrmiunc .' 


SONG  SHOULD  BREATHE. 

Song  should  breathe  of  scents  and  flowers ; 

Song  should  like  a  river  flow ; 
Song  should  bring  back  scenes  and  hours 

That  we  loved — ah,  long  ago! 

Song  from  baser  thoughts  should  win  us  ; 

Song  should  charm  us  out  of  wo  ; 
Song  should  stir  the  heart  vvithin  us. 

Like  a  patriot's  friendly  blow. 

Pains  and  pleasures,  all  men  doeth. 
War  and  peace,  and  right  and  wrong — 

All  things  that  the  soul  subdueth 
Should  be  vanquished,  too,  by  Song. 

Solig  should  spur  the  mind  to  duty  ; 

Nerve  the  weak,  and  stir  the  strong  : 
Every  deed  of  truth  and  beauty 

Should  be  crowned  by  starry  Song ! 

THE  SONG  OF  A  FELON'S  WIFE. 

The  brand  is  on  thy  brow, 

A  dark  and  guilty  spot  ; 
'Tis  ne'er  to  be  erased  ! 

'Tis  ne'er  to  be  forgot ! 

The  brand  is  on  thy  brow  ! 

Yet  I  must  shade  the  spot : 
For  who  will  love  thee  now, 

If  I  love  thee  not  ? 

Thy  soul  is  dark — is  stained — 

From  out  the  bright  world  thrown  ; 

By  God  and  man  disdained, 
But  not  by  me— thy  own ! 

Oh  I  even  the  tiger  slain 

Hath  one  who  ne'er  doth  flee, 
Who  soothes  his  dying  pain ! 

— That  one  am  I  to  thee  ! 

THE  WEAVER'S  SONG. 

Weave,  brothers,  weave  !— Swiftly  throw 

The  shuttle  athwart  the  loom. 
And  show  us  how  brightly  your  flowers  grow. 

That  have  beauty,  but  no  perfume 
Come,  show  us  the  rose,  with  a  hundred  dyes, 

The  lily,  that  hath  no  spot ; 
The  violet,  deep  as  your  true  love's  eyes. 
And  the  little  forget-me-not. 

Sing— sing,  brothers  .'  weave  and  sing  ! 
'Tis  good  both  to  sing  and  to  weave  ,- 
T(.s  better  to  work  than  live  idle ; 
'Tis  better  to  sing  than  grieve. 


162 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


Weave,  brothers,  weave  ! — Weave,  and  bid 

The  colors  of  sunset  glow  ! 
Let  grace  in  each  gliding  thread  be  hid ! 

Let  beauty  about  ye  blow  ! 
Let  your  skein  be  long,  and  your  silk  be  fine, 

And  your  hands  both  firm  and  sure, 
And  time  nor  chance  shall  your  work  untwine ; 

But  all — like  a  truth — endure. 
<b'o — aiiig,  bi-ol/tcrs,  6)0. 

Weave,  brothers,  weave  ! — Toil  is  ours  ; 

But  toil  is  the  lot  of  men  ; 
One  gathers  the  fruit,  one  gathers  the  flowers. 

One  soweth  the  seed  again  ! 
There  is  not  a  creature,  from  England's  king, 

'i'o  the  peasant  tiiat  delves  the  soil,    , 
'J'hat  knows  half  the  pleasures  the  seasons  bring. 

If  he  have  not  his  share  of  toil  I 
<Sy — sing,  brolhtrs,  <Vc. 


SABBATH  IN  LOWELL. 

BY  JOHN  G.   WHITIIEK. 

To  a  population  like  that  of  Lowell,  the  weekly 
respite  from  monotonous  in-door  toil,  afforded  by 
the  first  day  of  the  week,  is  particularly  grateful. 
Sabbath  comes  to  the  weary  and  over-worked  ope- 
rative emphatically  as  a  day  of  rest..  It  opens  upon 
him,  somewhat  as  it  did  upon  George  Herbert,  as  he 
describes  it  in  his  exquisite  little  poem  : 

"  Sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  cool  and  bright, 
The  liridarof  the  earth  and  s\s.y  !" 

Apart  from  its  soothing  religious  associations,  it 
brings  with  it  the  assurance  of  physical  comfort  and 
freedom.  It  is  something,  to  be  able  to  doze  out  the 
morning  from  daybreak  to  breakfast  in  that  luxuri- 
ous state  between  sleeping  and  waking,  in  which  the 
mind  eddies  slowly  and  peacefully  roimd  and  round, 
instead  of  rushing  onward,  the  future  a  blank,  the 
past  annihilated,  the  present  but  a  dim  consciousness 
of  pleasurable  existence.  Then,  too,  the  satisfaction 
is  by  no  means  inconsiderable  of  throwing  aside  the 
worn  and  soiled  habiliments  of  labor,  and  appearing 
in  neat  and  comfortable  attire.  The  moral  influ- 
ence of  dress  has  not  been  overrated  even  by  Carlyle's 
Professor  in  his  "  Sartor  Resartus."  William  Penn 
says,  that  cleanliness  is  akin  to  godliness.  A  well 
dressed  man,  all  other  things  being  equal,  is  not  half 
as  likely  to  compromise  his  character,  as  one  who 
approximates  to  shabhiness.  Lawrence  Sterne  used 
to  say,  tliat  when  he  felt  him.self  giving  way  to  low 
spirits,  and  a  sense  of  depression  and  worthlessness— 
a  sort  of  predisposition  for  all  sorts  of  little  mean- 
nesses—he forthwith  shaved  himself,  brushed  his 
wig,  donned  his    best  diebs  and  hib  gold  rings,  and 


thus  put  to  flight  the  azure  demons  of  his  unfortunate 
temperament.  There  is,  somehow,  a  close  affinity 
between  moral  purity  and  clean  linen ;  and  the 
sprites  of  our  daily  temptation,  who  seem  to  find 
easy  access  to  us  through  a  broken  hat,  or  a  rent  in 
the  elbow,  are  manifestly  baflled  by  the  "  complete 
mail"  of  a  clean  and  decent  dress.  I  recollect  on 
one  occasion  hearing  my  mother  tell  our  family 
physician,  that  a  woman  in  the  neighborhood,  not 
remarkable  for  her  tidiness,  had  become  a  church 
member.  "  Humph  I"  said  the  Doctor,  in  his  quick, 
sarcastic  way,  "what  of  that?  Don't  you  know  that 
no  unclean  thing  can  enter  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  !" 
'<  If  you  would  see"  Lowell  ''aright,"  as  Walter 
Scott  says  of  Melrose  Abbey,  one  must  be  here  of  a 
pleasant  First  Day,  at  the  close  of  what  is  called  the 
"  afternoon  service."  The  streets  are  then  blossom- 
ing like  a  peripatetic  flower  garden, — as  if  the  tulips, 
and  lilies,  and  roses  of  my  friend  Warren's  nursery, 
in  the  vale  of  IVonantum,  should  take  it  into  their 
heads  to  promenade  for  exercise.  Thousands  swarm 
forth,  who  during  week  days  are  confined  to  the  mills. 
Gay  colors  alternate  with  snowy  whiteness  ;  ex- 
tremest  fashion  elbows  the  plain  demureness  of  old- 
fashioned  Methodism.  Fair  pale  faces  catch  a  warm- 
er tint  from  the  free  sunshine  and  fresh  air.  The 
languid  step  becomes  elastic  with  that  "springy 
motion  in  the  gait,"  which  Charles  Lamb  admired. 
Yet  the  general  appearance  of  the  city  is  that  of 
quietude  ;  the  youthful  multitude  passses  on  calmly; 
its  voices  subdued  to  a  lower  and  softened  tone,  as  if 
fearful  of  breaking  the  repose  of  the  Day  of  Rest. 
A  stranger,  fresh  from  the  gaily-spent  Sabbaths  of 
the  Continent  of  Europe,  would  be  undoubtedly 
amazed  at  the  decorum  anil  sobriety  of  these  crowd- 
ed streets. 

I  am  no  Puritan,  but  I  nevertheless  welcome  with 
joy  unfeigned  this  First  Day  of  the  Week — sweetest 
pause  in  our  hard  life-march,  greenest  resting  place 
in  the  hot  desert  we  are  treading  !  The  errors  of 
those  who  mistake  its  benignant  rest  for  the  iron 
rule  of  the  Jewish  Sabbath,  and  who  consequently 
hedge  it  about  with  penalties,  and  bow  down  before 
it  in  slavish  terror,  should  not  render  us  less  grate, 
ful  for  the  real  blessing  it  brings  us.  As  a  day 
wrested  in  some  degree  from  the  god  of  this  world, 
as  an  opportunity  afforded  for  thoughtful  self-com- 
muning, let  us  receive  it  as  a  good  gift  of  our  Heaven- 
ly Parent,  in  love  rather  than  fear. 

Tn  passing  along  Ccntial  street  this  morning,  my 
attention  was  directed,  by  the  friend  who  accompa- 
nied me,  to  a  group  of  laborers,  with  coats  off  and 
sleeves  rolled  up,  heaving  at  levers — smiting  with 
sledge-hammers, — in  full  view  of  the  street,  on  the 
margin  of  the  canal,  just  above  Central  street  bridge- 
I  rubbed  my  eyes,  half  expecting  that  I  was  the  sub- 
ject of  mere  optical  illusion  ;  but  a  second  look  only 
confirmed  the  first.  Around  me  were  solemn,  go-to- 
meeting  faces — smileless  and  awful ;  and  close  at  hand 


VOICES  OF  THE   TRUE-HEARTED, 


163 


were  the  delving,  toiling,  mud-begrimmed  laborers. 
Nobody  seemed  surprised  at  it.  Nobody  noticed 
it  as  a  thing  out  of  the  common  course  of  events. 
And  this,  too,  in  a  city  where  the  Sabbath  proprie- 
ties are  sternly  insisted  upon  ;  where  some  twenty 
pulpits  deal  out  anathemas  upon  all  who  "desecrate 
the  Lord's  day;"  where  notices  of  meetings,  for 
moral  purposes  even,  can  scarcely  be  read  o'  Sun- 
days ;  where  many  count  it  wrong  to  speak  on  that 
day  for  the  slave,  who  knows  no  Sabbath  of  rest,  or 
for  the  drunkard,  who,  embruted  by  his  appetites, 
cannot  enjoy  it ! — Verily,  there  are  strange  contra- 
dictions in  our  conventional  morality.  Eyes,  which, 
looking  across  the  Atlantic  on  the  gay  Sabbath  dances 
of  French  peasants,  are  turned  upvi'ard  with  horror, 
are  somehow  blind  to  matters  close  at  home.  What 
would  be  sin  past  repentance,  in  an  individual,  be- 
comes quite  proper  in  a  corporation.  True,  the 
Sabbath  is  holy — but  the  canals  must  be  repaired. 
Every  body  ought  to  go  to  meeting — but  the  divi- 
dends must  not  be  diminished.  Church  Indulgences 
are  not,  after  all,  confined  to  Rome. 

To  a  close  observer  of  human  nature,  there  is 
nothing  surprising  in  the  fact,  that  a  class  of  persons, 
who  wink  at  this  sacrifice  of  Sabbath  sanctities  to 
the  demon  of  Gain,  look  at  the  same  time  with  stern 
disapprobation  upon  every  thing  partaking  of  the  cha- 
racter of  amusement,  however  innocent  and  health- 
ful, on  this  day.  But,  for  myself,  looking  down 
through  the  light  of  a  golden  evening  upon  these  quiet- 
ly passing  groups,  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  con- 
demn them  for  seeking  on  this,  their  sole  day  of  leisure, 
the  needful  influences  of  social  enjoyment,  unrestrain- 
ed exercise,  and  fresh  air.  I  cannot  think  any  essen- 
tial service  to  religion  or  humanity  would  result 
from  the  conversion  of  their  day  of  rest  into  a  Jewish 
Sabbath,  and  their  consequent  confinement,  like  so 
many  pining  prisoners,  in  close  and  crowded  board- 
ing houses.  Is  not  cheerfulness  a  duty — a  better  ex- 
pression of  our  gratitude  for  God's  blessings  than 
mere  words  ?  And  even  under  the  old  law  of  rituals, 
what  answer  had  the  Pliarisees  to  the  question,  "  Is 
it  not  lawful  to  do  good  on  the  Sabbath-day?" 

I  am  naturally  of  a  sober  temperament,  and  am, 
besides,  a  member  of  that  sect  which  Dr.  More  has 
called,  mistakingly  indeed,  "  th  emost  melancholy  of 
all;"  but  I  confess  a  special  dislike  of  disfigured 
faces — ostentatious  displays  of  piety — pride  aping 
humility.  Asceticism,  moroseness,  self-torture — 
ingratitude  in  view  of  down- showering  blessings,  and 
painful  restraint  of  the  better  feelings  of  our  nature, 
may  befit  a  Hindoo  fakir,  or  aMandan  medicine-man 
with  buffalo  skulls  strung  to  his  lacerated  muscles, 
but  they  look  to  me  sadly  out  of  place  in  a  believer 
of  the  Glad  Evangel  of  the  New  Testament.  The 
life  of  the  Divine  Teacher  affords  no  countenance  to 
this  sullen  and  gloomy  saintllness,  shutting  up  the 
heart  against  the  sweet  influences  of  human  sympa- 
thy and    the  blessed  ministrations  of  Nature.     To 


the  horror  and  clothes-rending  astonishment  of  blind 
Pharisees,  lie  uttered  the  significant  truth,  that 
"  the  Sabbath  was  made  for  man,  and  not  man  for 
the  Sabbath."  From  the  close  air  of  crowded  cities, 
from  thronged  temples  and  synagogues,  — where 
priest  and  Levitc  kept  up  a  show  of  worship,  drum- 
ming upon  hollow  ceremonials  the  more  loudly  for 
their  emptiness  of  life,  as  the  husk  rustles  the  more 
when  the  grain  is  gone — He  led  His  disciples  out 
into  the  country  stillness,  under  clear  Eastern  hea- 
vens, on  the  breezy  tops  of  mountains,  in  the  shade 
of  fruit  trees,  by  the  side  of  fountains  and  through 
yellow  harvest  fields,  enforcing  the  lessons  of  His 
divine  morality  by  comparisons  and  parables  sug- 
gested by  the  objects  around  Him,  or  the  cheerful 
incidents  of  social  humanity,  the  vineyard,  the  field 
lily,  the  sparrow  in  the  air,  the  sower  in  the  seed- 
field,  the  feast  and  the  marriage.  Thus  gently,  thus 
sweetly  kind  and  cheerful,  fell  from  His  lips  the 
Gospel  of  Humanity  :  Love  the  fulfilling  of  every 
law;  our  love  for  one  another  measuring  and  mani- 
festing our  love  of  Him.  Tlie  baptism  wherewith 
He  was  baptized  was  that  of  Divine  Fulness  in  the 
wants  of  our  humanity  ;  the  deep  waters  of  our  sor- 
rows went  over  him  ;  Ineffable  Purity  sounding  for 
our  sakes  the  dark  abysm  of  sin, — yet  how  like  a 
river  of  light  runs  that  serene  and  beautiful  life 
through  the  narratives  of  the  Evangelists  !  He 
broke  bread  with  the  poor,  despised  publican  ;  He 
sat  down  with  the  fishermen  by  the  sea  of  Galilee ; 
He  spoke  compassionate  words  to  sin-sick  Magdalen ; 
He  sanctified  by  his  presence  the  social  enjoyments 
of  home  and  friendship  in  the  family  of  Bethany; 
He  laid  his  hand  of  blessing  on  the  sunny  brows  of 
children  ;  He  had  regard  even  to  the  merely  animal 
wants  of  the  multitude  in  the  wilderness  ;  He  frown- 
ed upon  none  of  life's  simple  and  natural  pleasures,. 
The  burden  of  His  Gospel  was  Love  ;  and  in  life 
and  word  He  taught  evermore  the  divided  and  scat- 
tered children  of  one  great  family,  that  only  as  they 
drew  near  each  other  could  they  approach  Him  who 
was  their  common  centre  ;  and  that  while  no  osten- 
tation of  prayer  nor  rigid  observance  of  ceremonies 
could  elevate  man  to  Heaven,  the  simple  exercise 
of  Love,  in  thought  and  action,  could  bring  Heaven 
down  to  man.  To  weary  and  restless  spirits  He 
taught  the  great  truth,  that  happiness  consists  in 
making  others  happy.  No  cloister  for  idle  genuflex- 
ions and  head-counting,  no  hair-cloth  for  the  loins 
nor  scourge  for  the  limbs,  but  works  of  love  and 
usefulness  under  the  cheerful  sunshine,  making  the 
waste  places  of  humanity  glad,  and  causing  the 
heart's  desert  to  blossom.  Why  then  should  we  go 
searching  after  the  cast-off  sackcloth  of  the  Pharisee  ? 
Are  we  Jews  or  Christians?  Must  even  our  grati- 
tude for  "  glad  tidings  of  great  joy"  be  desponding? 
Must  the  hymn  of  our  thanksgiving  for  countless  mer- 
cies, and  the  unspeakable  gift  of  His  life,  have  ever- 
more .in  undertone  of  funeral  dirges  1  What !  shall  we 


164 


VOICES    OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


go  murmuring  and  lamenting,  looking  coldly  on  one 
another,  seeing  no  beauty  nor  light  nor  gladness  in 
this  world,  wherein  we  have  the  glorious  privilege 
of  laboring  in  God's  harvest-field,  with  angels  for 
our  task-com{>anions,  blessing  and  being  blessed? 

To  him,  who,  neglecting  the  revelations  of  imme- 
diate duty,  looks  regretfully  behind  and  fearfully 
before  him.  Life  is  a  solemn  mystery,  for  which- 
ever way  he  turns,  a  wall  of  darkness  rises  before 
him  ;  but  down  upon  the  Present  as  through  a  sky- 
light between  the  shadows,  falls  a  clear  still  radi- 
ance, like  beams  from  an  eye  of  blessing;  and  with- 
in the  circle  of  that  divine  illumination.  Beauty  and 
Goodness,  Truth  and  Love,  Purity  and  Cheerfulness, 
blend  like  primal  colors  into  the  clear  harmony  of 
iight.  The  author  of  "  Proverbial  Philosophy," 
upon  whom,  more  than  upon  any  living  writer,  has 
fallen  the  mantle  of  the  Son  of  Sirach,  has  a  pas- 
sage not  unworthy  of  note  in  this  connection,  when 
he  speaks  of  the  train  which  attends  the  Just  in 
Heaven  : 
"  Also  in  the  lengthening  troop  see  I  some  clad  in 

robes  of  triumph. 
Whose  fair  and  sunny  faces  I  have  known  and  loved 

on  earth, 
Welcome,  ye  glorified  Loves,  Graces,  Sciences,  and 

Muses, 
That,  like  Sisters  of  Charity,  tended  in  this  world's 

hospital. 
Welcome,  for  verily  I  knew  ye  could  not  but  be  chil- 
dren of  the  light. 
Welcome,  chiefly  welcome,  for  I  find  I  have  friends 

in  Heaven, 
And  some  I  have  scarcely  looked  for,  as  thou,  light- 
hearted  Mirth, 
Thou  also,   star-robed  Urania ;   and  thou  with  the 

curious  glass, 
That  rejoicest  in  tracking  beauty  where  the  eye  was 

too  dull  to  note  it. 
And  art  thou  too  among  the  blessed,  mild,  much- 
injured  Poetry  ? 
That  quickenest  with  light  and  beauty  the  leaden 

face  of  matter, 
That  not  unheard,  though  silent,  fillest  earth's  gar- 
dens with  music  ; 
And  not  unseen,  though  a  spirit,  dost  look  down  upon 
us  from  the  stars." 

TO  LIFE. 

BY  MRS.'BARBAULD. 

Life!  we've  been  long  together. 

Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather  > 

'Tis  hard  to  part,  when  friends  are  dear, 

Perhaps  'twill  cause  a  sigh,  a  tear  ; 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time, 

Say  not  good  night,  but  in  some  higlier  clime 

Rid  me  good  morning. 


LINES, 

EV   WILLIAM  WOKnSWORTH, 

Coriipjsed  a  few  miles  above  Tintem  Alley,  on  re- 
vistting  the  Banks  of  the  Wye  during  a  tour.  July 
13,  1798. 

Five  years  lave  past ;  five  summers,  with  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters  !  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 

With  a  sweet  inland  murmur. — Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion  ;  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 

These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts, 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 

Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 

'1  he  wild  green  landscape.     Once  again  I  see 

These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild  :  these  pastoral  farms, 

Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees  ! 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 

Or  of  some  Hermits  cave,  where  by  his  fire 

The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
.As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 
But  oft,  in  lonelj'  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them. 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet. 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind. 
With  tranquil  restoration  : — feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure  :  such,  perhaps. 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift. 
Of  aspect  more  sublime  ;  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world. 
Is  lightened  : — that  serene  and  blessed  mood. 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on. — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul  : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 


i 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


165 


If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet.  oh !  how  oft — 
In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  bsatings  of  my  heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye  !    Thou  wanderer  through  the  woods ! 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 

And    now,  with    gleams    of    half- extinguished 
thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity. 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  tho\ights 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,   from  what  I  was  when 

first 
i  came  among  these  hills ;  when  like  a  roe 

1  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams. 
Wherever  nature  led  :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 

To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 

What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 

Haunted  me  like  a  passion :  the  tall  rock. 

The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood. 

Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 

An  apppetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love. 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 

By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 

Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur ;  other  gifts 

Have  followed ;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe. 

Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth  ;  but  hearing  oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.      And  1  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 

And   rolls    through   all   things.       Therefore   am   I 

still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 


And  mountains  ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye,  and  ear, — both  what  they  half  create. 
And  what  perceive  ;  well  pleased  to  recognise 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse. 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river  ;   thou  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend  ;   and  in  thy  voice  1  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister !  and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray. 
The  heart  that  loved  her  ;  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men. 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk  ; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee :  and,  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure ;  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms. 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies;  oh  !  then. 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief. 
Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 
And  these  my  exhortations  !     Nor,  perchance — 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy   wild   eyes    these 

gleams 
Of  past  existence — wilt  thou  then  forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 
We  stood  together ;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 
Unwearied  in  that  service  :  rather  say 
With  warmer  love — oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget. 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
I  More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake  ! 


166 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


THEY  ARE  ALL  GONE. 

D^    HENRY    VAUGHAN. 

They  are  all  gone  into  a  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  the  hill  is  dressed, 

After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days, — 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmerings  and  decays. 

O  holy  hope,  and  high  humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  ye  have  showed  them  me, 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death  !  the  jewel  of  the  just ! 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust. 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels,  in  some  brighter  dreams. 
Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep. 

So   some    strange    thoughts  transcend   our  wonted 
themes, 
And  into  glory  peep  ! 


TRADITIOXARY    BALLAD. 

THE  FAIRIES  OF  THE  CALDON-LOW. 

BY    MARY    HOWITT. 

'<  .And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 
And  where  have  you  been  from  me  ?" 

"  I've  been  at  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 
The  midsummer  night  to  seel" 

"  And  wliat  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  CaldonHill  ?" 
<•  I  heard  the  drops  of  the  water  made. 

And  the  green  corn  ears  to  fill." 

<<  Oh  tell  me  all,  my  Mary,— 

All,  all  that  ever  you  know ; 
For  you  must  have  .seen  the  fairies, 

Last  night,  on  the  Caldon-Low." 


"  Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother, 

And  listen,  mother  of  mine  : —    • 
A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 

And  the  harpers  they  were  nine. 

"  And  merry  was  the  glee  of  the  harp-strings, 

And  their  dancing  feet  so  small  ; 
But,  oh,  the  sound  of  their  talking 

Was  merrier  far  than  all  I" 

'<  And  what  were  the  words,  my  Mary, 

That  you  did  hear  them  say  ?" 
"Til  tell  you  all,  my  mother — 

But  let  me  have  my  way  ! 

<<  And  some  they  played  with  the  water, 

And  roll'd  it  down  the  hill ; 
'  And  this,'  they  said,  <  shall  speedily  turn 

The  poor  old  miller's  mill ; 

"  '  For  there  has  been  no  water 

Ever  since  the  first  of  May  ; 
And  a  busy  man  shall  the  miller  be 

By  the  dawning  of  the  day ! 

"  '  Oh,  the  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 

When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise  I 
The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 

Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eyes  !' 

"  And  some,  they  siezed  the  little  winds, 

That  sounded  over  the  hill. 
And  each  put  a  horn  into  his  mouth, 

And  blew  so  sharp  and  shrill — 

"  <  And  there,'  said  they,  '  the  merry  winds  go 

Away  from  every  horn  ; 
And  those  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 

From  the  blind  old  widow's  corn  I 

"  '  Oh,  the  poor,  blind  old  widow — 
Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long. 

She'll  be  merry  enough  when  the  mildew's  gone, 
And  the  corn  stands  stiflfand  strong  I' 

"  And  some,  they  brought  the  brown  lint-seed. 
And  flung  it  down  from  thfe  Low — 

'  And  this,'  said  they,  '  by  the  sunrise, 
In  the  weaver's  croft  shall  grow ! 

<< '  Oh,  the  poor  lame  weaver, 

How  will  he  laugh  outright. 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax  field 

All  full  of  flowers  by  night !' 

"  And  then  upspoke  a  brownie. 

With  a  long  beard  on  his  chin — 
'  I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow,'  said  he, 

■  And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 

'<  <  I've  spun  a  piece  of  hem])Pn  cloth, 

And  I  want  to  spin  another — 
A  little  sheet  for  Mary's  bed. 

And  an  apron  for  her  mother !' 


VOICES    OF     TH  E  TR  U  E  -  H  EA  R  T  E  D. 


167 


''  And  with  that  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
And  I  laughed  out  loud  and  free ; 

And  then  on  the  top  of  the  CaJdon-Low 
There  was  no  one  left  hut  me. 

"  And  all,  on  the  top  of  the  CaldonLow, 
The  mists  were  cold  and  gray, 

And  nothing  1  saw  but  the  mossy  stones 
'J'hat  round  about  me  lay. 

'<  But  as  I  came  down  from  the  hill-top, 

I  heard  a  jar  below  ; 
How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was, 

And  how  merry  the  wheel  did  go  ! 

"  And  I  peeped  into  the  widow's  field, 

And,  sure  enough,  was  seen 
The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  corn 

All  standing  stiff  and  green. 

"  And  down  by  the  weaver's  croft  I  stole, 

To  see  if  the  flax  were  high ; 
But  I  saw  the  weaver  at  his  gate, 

With  the  good  news  in  his  eye ! 

"Now,  this  is  all  I  heard,  mother. 

And  all  that  I  did  see ; 
So  prythee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 

For  I  am  tired  as  I  can  be  I" 


SWEET  PHOSPHOR,  BRING  THE  DAY. 

BY  FRANCIS  QTTAULES. 

Will 't  ne'er  be  morning  ?    Will  that  promised  light 
Ne'er  break  and  clear  those  clouds  of  night  ? 
Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day. 
Whose  conquering  ray 

May  chase  these  fogs  !     Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the 
day! 

How  long,  how  long  shall  these  benighted  eyes 

Languish  in  shades,  like  feeble  flies 

Expecting  Spring  ?     How  long  shall  darkness  soil 

The  face  of  earth,  and  thus  beguile 

Our  souls  of  sprightful  action  1     When,  when  will 

day 
Begin  to  dawn,  whose  new-born  ray 
May  gild  the  weathercocks  of  our  devotion, 
And  give  our  unsouled  souls  new  motion  ? 
Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day ! 
Thy  light  will  fray 
These  horrid  mists :  Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day  ! 

Let  those  have  night,  that  slyly  love  to  immure 
Their  cloistered  crimes,  and  sin  secure  ; 


Let  those  have  night,  that  blush  to  let  men  know 

The  baseness  they  ne'er  blush  to  do  ; 

Let  those  have  night,  that  love  to  have  a  nap 

And  loll  in  Ignorance's  lap. 

Let  those,  whose  eyes,  like  owls,  abhor  the  light, 

Let  those  have  night,  that  love  the  night  : 

Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day  ! 

How  sad  delay 

Afflicts  dull  hopes  !   Sweet  Phosplior,  bring  the  day  ! 

Alas  !  my  light-in-vain-expecting  eyes 
Can  find  no  objects,  but  what  rise 
From  this  poor  mortal  blaze,  a  dying  spark 
Of  Vulcan's  forge,  whose  flames  are  dark, 
A  dangerous,  dull,  blue-burning  light, 
As  melancholy  as  the  night : 
Here  's  all  the  suns  that  glitter  in  the  sphere 
Of  earth:  Ah  me  !  what  comfort's  here  ? 
Sweet  Phosphor  bring  the  day  ! 
Haste,  haste  away, 

Heaven's  loitering  lamp  !  Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the 
day  ! 

Blow,  ignorance  !  0  thou,  whose  idle  knee 
Rocks  earth  into  a  lethargy, 
And  with  thy  sooty  fingers  hast  benight 
The  world's  fair  cheeks,  blow,  blow  thy  spite  ! 
Since  thou  hast  pufl^ed  our  greater  taper,  do 
Puff"  on,  and  out  the  lesser  too  : 
If  e'er  that  breath-exiled  flame  return. 
Thou  hast  not  blown,  as  it  will  burn  : 
Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day  ! 
Light  will  repay 

The  wrongs  of  night :    Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the 
day  ! 


THE  DEATH-BED. 

Br  THOMAS  HOOD. 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low. 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak. 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  being  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  ; 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad 

And  chill  with  early  showers. 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed ; — she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours. 


1G8 


VOICES   OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT. 

BY   CHARLES  LAMB. 

The  custom  of  saying  grace  at  meals  had,  proba- 
bly, its  origin  in  the  early  times  of  the  world,  and 
the  hunter-state  of  man,  when  dinners  were  precious 
things,  and  a  full  meal  was  something  more  than  a 
common  blessing  !  when  a  belly-full  was  a  wind- 
fall, and  looked  like  a  special  providence.  In  the 
shouts  and  triumphal  songs  with  which,  after  a  sea- 
son of  sharp  abstinence,  a  lucky  booty  of  deer's  or 
goat's  flesh  would  naturally  be  ushered  home,  exist- 
ed, perhaps,  the  germ  of  the  modern  grace.  It  is 
not  otherwise  easy  to  be  understood,  why  the  bless- 
ing of  food— t  le  act  of  eating — should  have  had  a 
particular  expression  of  thanksgiving  annexed  to  it, 
distinct  from  that  implied  and  silent  gratitude  with 
which  we  are  expected  to  enter  upon  the  enjoyment 
of  the  many  other  various  gifts  and  good  things  of 
existence. 

I  own  that  I  am  disposed  to  say  grace  upon  twen- 
ty other  occasions  in  the  course  of  the  day  besides 
my  dinner.  I  want  a  form  of  prayer  for  setting  out 
upon  a  pleasant  walk,  for  a  moonlight  ramble,  for  a 
friendly  meeting,  or  a  solved  problem.  Why  have 
we  none  for  books,  those  spiritual  repasts — a  grace 
before  Milton — a  grace  before  Shakspeare — a  devo- 
tional exercise  proper  to  be  said  before  reading  the 
Fairy  Queen  ?— but  the  received  ritual  having  pre- 
scribed these  forms  to  the  solitary  ceremony  of  man- 
ducation,  I  shall  confine  my  observations  to  the  ex- 
perience which  I  have  had  of  the  grace,  properly  so 
called  ;  commending  my  new  scheme  for  extension 
to  a  niche  in  the  grand  philosophical,  poetical,  and 
perchance  in  part  heretical,  liturgy,  now  compiling 
by  my  friend  Homo  Ilumanus,  for  the  use  of  a  cer- 
tain snug  congregation  of  Utopian  Rabelacsian  Chris- 
tians, no  matter  where  assembled. 

The  form,  then,  of  the  benediction  before  eating 
has  its  beauty  at  a  poor  man's  taldc,  or  at  the  simple 
and  unprovocative  repasts  of  children.  It  is  here 
that  the  grace  becomes  exceedingly  graceful.  The 
indigent  man,  who  hardly  knows  whether  he  shall 
have  a  meal  the  next  day  or  not,  sits  down  to  his 
fare  with  a  present  sense  of  the  blessing,  which  can 
be  but  feebly  acted  by  the  rich,  into  whose  minds 
the  conception  of  wanting  a  dinner  could  never,  but 
by  some  extreme  theory,  have  entered.  The  proper 
end  of  food— the  animal  sustenance— is  barely  con- 
templated by  them.  'J'he  poor  man's  bread  is  his 
daily  bread,  literally  his  bread  for  the  day.  Their 
courses  are  perennial. 

Again  the  plainest  diet  seems  the  fittest  to  be  pre- 
ceded by  the  grace.  That  which  is  least  stimulative 
to  appetite,  leaves  the  mind  most  free  for  foreign 
considerations.  A  man  may  feel  thankful,  heartily 
thankful,  over  a  dish  of  plain  mutton  with  turnips, 
and  have  leisure  to  reflect  upon  the  ordinance  and 
iiislilulioii  of  eating  ;  when  he  ^hall  confess  a  per- 


turbation of  the  mind,  inconsistent  with  the  purposes 
of  the  grace,  at  the  presence  of  venison  or  turtle. 
When  I  have  sate  (a  varus  hospes)  at  rich  men's 
tables,  with  the  savory  soup  and  messes  steaming  up 
the  nostrils,  and  moistening  the  lips  of  the  guests 
with  desire  and  a  distracted  choice,  I  have  felt  the 
introduction  of  that  ceremony  to  be  unseasonable. 
With  the  ravenous  orgasm  upon  you,  it  seems  im- 
pertinent to  interpose  a  religious  sentiment.  It  is 
a  confusion  of  purpose  to  mutter  our  praises  from  a 
mouth  that  waters.  The  heats  of  epicurism  put  out 
the  gentle  flame  of  devotion.  The  incense  which 
rises  round  is  pagan,  and  the  belly  god  intercepts  it 
for  his  own.  The  very  excess  of  the  provision  be- 
yond the  needs,  takes  away  all  the  sense  of  propor- 
tion between  the  end  and  means.  The  giver  is  veil- 
ed by  his  gifts.  You  are  startled  at  the  injustice  of 
returning  thanks — for  what  ? — for  having  too  much, 
while  so  many  starve.  It  is  to  praise  the  Gods 
amiss. 

I  have  observed  this  awkwardness  felt,  scarce 
consciously  perhaps,  by  the  good  man  who  says  the 
grace.  I  have  seen  it  in  clergymen  and  others — a 
sort  of  shame — a  sense  of  the  co-presence  of  circum- 
stances which  unhallow  the  blessing.  After  a  de- 
votional tone  put  on  for  a  few  seconds,  how  rapidly 
the  speaker  will  fall  into  his  common  voice  !  help- 
ing himself  or  his  neighbor,  as  if  to  get  rid  of  some 
uneasy  sensation  of  hypocrisy.  Not  that  the  good 
man  was  a  hypocrite,  or  was  not  most  conscientious 
in  the  discharge  of  his  duty;  but  he  felt  in  his  in- 
most mind  the  incompatibility  of  the  scene  and  the 
viands  before  him  with  the  exercise  of  a  calm  and 
rational  gratitude. 

I  hear  somebody  exclaim, — Would  you  have  Chris- 
tians sit  down  at  table,  like  hogs  to  their  troughs, 
without  remembering  the  Giver  ! — no — I  would  have 
them  sit  down  as  Christians,  remembering  the  Givcfr, 
and  less  like  hogs.  Or  if  their  appetites  must  run 
riot,  and  they  must  pamper  themselves  with  de- 
licacies for  which  east  and  west  are  ransacked,  I 
would  have  them  postpone  their  benediction  to  a 
fitter  season,  when  appetite  is  laid ;  when  the  still 
small  voice  can  be  heard,  and  the  reason  of  the  grace 
returns — with  temperate  diet  and  restricted  dishes. 
Gluttony  and  surfeiting  are  no  proper  occasions  for 
thanksgiving.  When  Jeshurun  waxed  fat,  we  read 
that  he  kicked.  Virgil  knew  the  harpy-nature  bet- 
ter, when  he  put  into  the  mouth  of  Celxno  anything 
but  a  blessing.  W^e  may  be  gratefully  sensible  of 
the  dcliciousnessof  some  kinds  of  food  beyond  others, 
tliough  that  is  a  meaner  and  inferior  gratitude  :  but 
the  proper  object  of  the  grace  is  sustenance,  not 
relishes  ;  daily  bread,  not  delicacies  ;  the  means  of 
life,  and  not  the  means  of  pampering  the  carcass. 
With  what  frame  or  composure,  I  wonder,  can  a  city 
chaplain  pronounce  his  benediction  at  some  great 
Hall-feast,  when  he  knows  that  his  last  concluding 
pious  word — and  that  in  all  probability,   the  sacred 


VOICES   OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


169 


jiame  which  he  preaches — is  but  the  signal  for  so 
many  impatient  harpies  to  commence  their  foul 
orgies,  with  as  little  sense  of  true  thankfulness 
(which  is  temperance)  as  those  Virgilian  fowl !  It 
is  well  if  the  good  man  himself  does  not  feel  his  de- 
votions a  little  clouded,  those  foggy  sensuous  steams 
mingling  with  and  polluting  the  pure  altar  sacrifice. 
The  severest  satire  upon  full  tables  and  surfeits 
is  the  banquet  which  Satan,  in  the  Paradise  Regain- 
ed, provides  for  a  temptation  in  the  wilderness: 

A  table  richly  spread  in  regal  mode 
With  dishes  piled,  and  meats  of  noblest  sort 
And  savor  ;  beasts  of  chase,  or  foul  of  game, 
In  pastry  built,  or  from  the  spit,  or  boiled, 
(Jris-amber-steamed  ;  all  fish  from  sea  or  shore, 
I'reshet  or  purling  brook,  for  which  w'as  drained 
Pontus,  and  Lncrine  bay,  and  Afric  coast. 

The  Tempter,  I  warrant  you,  thought  these  cates 
w  ould  go  down  without  the  recommendatory  preface 
of  a  benediction.  They  are  like  to  be  short  graces 
where  the  devil  plays  the  host.  lam  afraid  the  poet 
wants  his  usual  decorum  in  this  place.  Was  he  think- 
ing of  the  old  Roman  luxury,  or  of  a  gaudy  day  at 
Cambridge?  This  was  a  temptation  fitter  for  a 
lleliogabalus.  The  whole  banquet  is  too  civic  and 
culinary,  and  the  accompaniments  altogether  a  pro- 
fanation of  that  deep,  abstracted,  holy  scene.  Tlie 
mighty  artillery  of  sauces,  which  the  cook-fiend  con- 
jures up,  is  out  of  proportion  to  the  simple  wants 
and  plain  hunger  of  the  guest.  He  that  disturbed 
him  in  his  dreams,  from  his  dreams  might  have  been 
taught  better.  To  the  temperate  fantasies  of  the 
famished  Son  of  God,- what  sort  of  feasts  presented 
themselves  1     He  dreamed  indeed, 

As  appetite  is  wont  to  dream. 

Of  meats  and  drinks,  nature's  refreshment  sweet. 
But  what  meats  ? — 

Him  thought,  he  by  the  brook  of  Cherith  stood, 
And  saw  the  ravens  with  their  horny  beaks 
Food  to  Elijah  bringing  even  and  morn ; 
Though  ravenous,  taught  to  abstain  from  what  they 

brought : 
He  saw  the  prophet  also  how  he  fled 
Into  the  desert  and  how  there  he  slept, 
Under  a  juniper  ;  then  how  awaked 
He  found  his  supper  on  the  coals  prepared, 
And  by  the  angel  was  bid  rise  and  cat. 
And  ate  the  second  time  after  repose. 
The  strength  whereof  sufliced  him  forty  days  : 
Sometimes,  that  with  Elijah  he  partook, 
Or  as  a  guest  with  Daniel  at  his  pulse. 
Nothing  in  Milton  is  finelier  fancied  than  these  tem- 
jierate  dreams  of  the  divine  Hungerer.     To  which  of 
these  two  visionary  banquets,  think  you,  would  the 
introduction  of  what  is  called  the  grace  have  been 
the  most  fitting  and  pertinent  1 

Theoretically  I  am  no  enemy  to  graces  ;  but  prac- 


tically I  own  that  (before  meat  especially)  they 
seem  to  involve  something  awkward  and  unseason- 
able. Our  appetites,  of  one  or  another  kind,  are  ex- 
cellent spurs  to  our  reason,  which  might  otherwise 
but  feebly  set  about  the  great  ends  of  preserving  and 
continuing  the  species.  They  are  fit  blessings  to  be 
contemplated  at  a  distance  with  a  becoming  grati- 
tude ;  but  the  moment  of  appetite  (the  judicious 
reader  will  apprehend  me)  is,  perhaps,  the  least  fit 
season  for  that  exercise.  The  Quakers,  who  go 
about  their  business  of  every  description  with  more 
calmness  than  we,  have  more  title  to  the  use  of  these 
benedictory  prefaces.  I  have  always  admired  their 
silent  grace,  and  the  more  because  I  have  observed 
their  applications  to  the  meat  and  drink  following  to 
be  less  passionate  and  sensual  than  ours.  They  are 
neither  gluttons  nor  wine-bibbers  as  a  people.  They 
eat,  as  a  horse  bolts  his  chopped  hay,  with  indiffer- 
ence, calmness,  and  cleanly  circumstances.  They 
neither  grease  nor  slop  themselves.  When  I  see  a 
citizen  in  his  bib  and  tucker,  I  cannot  imagine  it  a 
surplice. 

I  am  no  Quaker  at  my  food.  I  confess  I  am  not 
indifferent  to  the  kinds  of  it.  Those  unctuous  mor- 
sels of  deer's  flesh  were  not  made  to  be  received 
with  dispassionate  services.  I  hate  a  man  who  swal- 
lows it,  affecting  not  to  know  what  he  is  eating.  I 
suspect  his  taste  in  higher  matters.  I  shrink  instinc- 
tively from  one  who  professes  to  like  minced  veal. 
There  is  a  physiognomical   character  in  the  tastes 

for  food.     C holds  that  a  man  cannot  have  a 

pure  mind  who  refuses  apple  dumplings.  I  am  not 
certain  but  he  is  right.  With  the  decay  of  my  first 
innocence,  I  confess  a  less  and  less  relish  daily  for 
those  innocuous  cates.  The  whole  vegetable  tribe 
have  lost  their  gust  with  me.  Only  I  stick  to  aspa- 
ragus, which  still  seems  to  inspire  gentle  thoughts. 
I  am  impatient  and  querulous  under  culinary  disap- 
pointments ;  as  to  come  home  at  the  dinner  hour,  for 
instance,  expecting  some  savory  mess,  and  to  find 
one  quite  tasteless  and  sapidless.  Butter  ill  melted — 
that  commonest  of  kitchen  failures— puts  me  beside 
my  tenor.  The  autlior  of  the  Rambler  used  to  make 
inarticulate  animal  noises  over  a  favorite  food.  Was 
this  the  music  quite  proper  to  be  preceded  by  the 
"race  ?  or  would  the  pious  man  have  done  better  to 
jiostpone  his  devotions  to  a  season  when  the  blessing 
might  be  contemplated  with  less  perturbation  ?  I 
quarrel  with  no  man's  tastes,  nor  would  set  my  thin 
face  against  those  excellent  things,  in  their  way, 
jollity  and  feasting.  But  as  these  exercises,  however 
laudable,  have  little  in  them  of  grace  or  gracefulness, 
a  man  should  be  sure,  before  he  ventures  so  to  grace 
them,  that  while  he  is  pretending  his  devotions  other- 
wise, he  is  not  secretly  kissing  his  hand  to  some. 
great  fish— his  Dagon— with  a  special  consecration 
of  no  ark  but  the  fat  tureen  before  him.  Graces  are 
the  sweet  preluding  strains  to  the  banquets  of  angels 
and  children  ;  to  the  roots  and  severer  repasts  of  the 
22 


170 


VOICES    OF  THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


Chartreuse ;  to  the  slender,  but  not  slenderly  ac- 
knowledged, refection  of  the  poor  and  humble  man  : 
but  at  the  heapcd-up  boards  of  the  pampered  and 
the  luxurious  they  become  of  dissonant  mood,  less 
timed  and  tuned  to  the  occasion,  methinks,  than  the 
noise  of  those  better  befitting  org;ans  would  be  which 
children  hear  tales  of,  at  Hog's  Norton.  We  sit  too 
long  at  our  meals,  or  are  too  curious  in  the  study  of 
them,  or  are  too  disordered  in  our  application  to 
them,  or  engross  too  great  a  portion  of  those  good 
things  (which  should  be  common)  to  our  share,  to 
be  able  with  any  grace  to  say  grace.  To  be  thank- 
ful for  what  we  grasp  exceeding  our  proportion,  is 
to  add  hypocrisy  to  injustice.  A  lurking  sense  of 
this  truth  is  what  makes  the  performance  of  this 
duty  so  cold  and  spiritless  a  service  at  most  tables. 
In  houses  where  the  grace  is  as  indispensable  as  the 
napkin,  who  has  not  seen  that  never-settled  question 
arise,  as  to  tuho  shall  say  it?  while  the  good  man 
of  the  house  and  the  visitor  clergyman,  or  some 
other  guest  belike  of  next  authority,  from  years  or 
gravity,  shall  be  bandying  about  the  office  between 
them  as  a  matter  of  compliment,  each  of  them  not 
unwilling  to  shift  the  awkward  burthen  of  an  equi- 
vocal duty  from  his  own  shoulders  ? 

I  once  drank  tea  in  company  with  two  Methodist 
divines  of  different  persuasions,  whom  it  was  my 
fortune  to  introduce  to  each  other  for  the  first  time 
that  evening.  Before  the  first  cup  was  handed  round, 
one  of  these  reverend  gentlemen  put  it  to  the  other, 
with  all  due  solemnity,  whether  he  chose  to  say 
anything.  It  seems  it  is  the  custom  with  some  sec- 
taries to  put  up  a  short  prayer  before  this  meal  also. 
His  reverend  brother  did  not  at  first  quite  apprehend 
bim,  but  upon  an  explanation,  with  little  less  im- 
portance he  made  answer  that  it  was  not  a  custom 
known  in  his  church:  in  which  courteous  evasion 
the  other  acquiescing  for  good  manners'  sake,  or  in 
compliance  with  a  weak  brother,  the  supplementary 
or  tea-grace  was  waived  altogether.  With  what 
spirit  might  not  Lucian  have  painted  two  priests,  of 
his  religion,  playing  into  each  other's  hands  the  com- 
pliment of  performing  or  omitting  a  sacrifice,— the 
hungry  God  meantime,  doubtful  of  his  incense,  with 
expectant  nostrils  hovering  over  the  two  flamens, 
and  (as  between  two  stools)  going  away  in  the  end 
without  his  supper  ! 

*  *  ♦  *  » 


Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
l\Iinds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love. 

And  in  my  soul  am  free  ; 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

RicuAED  Lovelace 


THE  OCEAN. 

BY  JOUN  AUGUSTUS  SHEA. 

Likeness  of  Heaven ! 

Agent  of  power ! 

Man  is  thy  victim  ! 

Shipwrecks  thy  dower  ! 

Spices  and  jewels 

From  valley  and  sea, 

Armies  and  banners 

Are  buried  in  thee. 

What  are  the  riches 

Of  Mexico's  mines, 

To  the  wealth  that  far  down 

In  the  deep  water  shines  ? 

The  proud  navies  that  cover 

The  conquering  west — 

Thou  llingest  them  to  death 

With  one  heave  of  thy  breast. 

From  the  high  hills  that  view 

Thy  wreck-making  shore. 

When  the  bride  of  the  mariner 

Shrieks  at  thy  roar  ; 

Whf  n  like  lambs  in  the  tempest. 

Or  mews  in  the  blast, 

O'er  thy  ridge  broken  billows 

Ihe  canvass  is  cast. 

How  humbling  to  one 

With  a  heart  and  a  soul, 

To  look  on  thy  greatness 

And  list  to  its  roll : 

To  think  how  that  heart 

In  cold  ashes  shall  be, 

While  the  voice  of  eternity 

Rises  from  thee  I 

Yes !  where  are  the  cities 

Of  Thebes  and  of  Tyre  ? 

Swept  from  the  nations 
Like  sparks  from  the  fire; 
The  glory  of  Athens, 
The  splendor  of  Rome, 
Dissolved — and  for  ever — 
Like  dew  in  thy  foam. 

But  thou  art  almighty, 

Eternal — sublime — 

Unweakened — unwasted — 

Twin  brother  of  Time ! 

Fleets,  tempests,  nor  nations 

Thy  glory  can  bow  ; 

As  the  stars  first  beheld  thee, 

Still  chainless  art  thou  ! 

But  hold !  when  the  surges 

No  longer  shall  roll. 

And  that  firmament's  length 

Is  drawn  back  like  a  scroll ; 

Then — then  shall  the  spirit 

That  sighs  by  thee  now, 

Be  more  mighty — more  lasting — 

3Ioie  chainless  than  thou. 


VOICES  OF  THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


171 


HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 

BY    HORACE    SMITH. 

Day-stars !  that  ope  your  eyes  with  morn  to  twinkle 

From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lovely  altars  sprinkle 
Asa  libation! 

Ye  matin  worshippers  !  who  bending  lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  sun,  God's  lidless  eye, 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  hoiy 
Incense  on  high  ! 

Ye  bright  mosaics  !  that  with  storied  beauty 

The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tessellate. 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create  ! 

'Neath  cloister'd  boughs  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth, 

And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air. 

Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 

A  call  to  prayer  ! 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand  ; 
But  to  that  fane  most  catholic  and  solemn 
Which  God  hath  planned ! 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 

Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply. 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ  thunder. 
Its  dome  the  sky  I 

There, — as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 

Through  the  lone  aisles,  or  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God, — 

Your  voiceless  lips,  0  flowers,  are  living  preachers, 

Each  cup  a  pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a  book. 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook  ! 

Floral  apostles  !  that  in  dewy  splendor 

Weep  without  sin  and  blush  without  a  crime, 
0,  may  I  deeply  learn  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  love  sublime  ! 

««  Thou  wast  not,  Solomon,  in  all  thy  glory, 

Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,  "  in  robes  like  ours:" 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !     0,  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers  ! 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  Artist ! 

With  which  thou  paintest  Nature's  wide-spread  hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 

Of  love  to  all ! 
Not  useless  are  ye,  flowersi  though  made  for  jdeasure, 
Blooming  o'er  fields  and  wave  by  day  and  night. 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 

Harmless  delight. 
Ephemeral  sages  !  what  instructers  hoary 

For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori, 
Yet  fount  of  hope  ! 


Posthumous  glories  !  angel-like  collection  ! 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in  earth, 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I,  O  God  !  in  churchless  lands  remaining. 

Far  from  all  teachers  and  from  all  divines. 
My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  thy  ordaining. 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines! 


A  SONG. 

BY    THOMAS  CHUHCHYARD. 

It  is  not  beauty  I  demand, 

A  crystal  brow,  the  moon's  despair. 
Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand. 

Nor  mermaid's  yellow  pride  of  hair. 

Tell  me  not  of  your  starry  eyes. 
Your  lips,  that  seem  on  roses  fed. 

Your  breasts,  where  Cupid  tumbling  lies. 
Nor  sleeps  for  kissing  of  his  bed, — 

A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks. 
Like  Hebe's  inher  ruddiest  hours, 

A  breath  that  softer  music  speaks 

Than  summer  winds  a-wooing  flowers. 

These  are  but  gauds  ;  nay,  what  are  lips? 

Coral  beneath  the  ocean-stream. 
Whose  brink  when  your  adventurer  slips, 

Full  oft  he  perisheth  on  them. 

And  what  are  cheeks,  but  ensigns  oft, 
That  wave  hot  youth  to  fields  of  blood  ? 

Did  Helen's  breast,  though  ne'er  so  soft, 
Do  Greece  or  Ilium  any  good  ? 

Eyes  can  with  baleful  ardor  burn. 

Poison  can  breathe,  that  erst  perfumed  ; 

There  's  many  a  white  hand  holds  an  urn, 
With  lover's  hearts  to  dust  consumed. 

For  crystal  brows,  there  's  naught  within; 

They  are  but  empty  cells  for  pride ; 
He  who  the  Siren's  hair  would  win 

Is  mostly  strangled  in  the  tide. 

Give  me,  instead  of  beauty's  bust, 

A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  inind. 
Which  with  temptation  I  would  trust. 

Yet  never  linked  with  error  find  ; — 

One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes, 

Like  the  care-burdened  honey-fly. 

That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rose ; — 

My  earthly  comforter!  whose  love 

So  indefeasible  might  be, 
That,  when  my  spirit  won  above, 

Hers  could  not  stay,  for  sympathy. 


17; 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


LOVE  FOR  ALL. 


BY   LVDIA   MARIA   CHILD. 


(Written  just  iiftcr  John  C.  Cr>lt  nvoided  cajiilal  piinisliniciil, 
bv  8u icicle.) 

Every  year  of  my  life  I  grow  more  and  more  con- 
viiiced,  that  it  i.s  wisest  and  best  to  fix  our  attention 
on  the  beautiful  and  good,  and  dwell  as  little  as  pos- 
sible on  the  evil  and  the  false.     Society  has  done  my 
spirit  <i;ricvons  wron^,   for  the  last  few  weeks,   with 
its    le^al    bull-baitings,    and    its    hired   murderers. 
They  have  made  me  ashamed  of  belonging  to  the 
human   species;    and  were  it  not  that  I  struggled 
hard  a-^aiiist  it,  ar.d  prayed  earnestly  for  a  spirit  of 
forgiveness,  they  would  have  made  me  hate  my  race. 
Yet  feeling  thus,  I  did  wrong  to  thtin.    Most  of  them 
had  merely  caught  the  contagion  of  murder,  and  real- 
ly were  not  aware  of  the  nature  of  the  fiend  they 
harbored.     Probably  there  was  not  a  single  heart 
in  the  comminiity,  not  even  the  most  brutal,  that 
would  not  have  been  softened,  could  it  have  entered 
into  confidential  intercourse  with  the  prisoner  as  Dr. 
Anthon  did.     All  would  then  have  learned  that  he 
■was  a  human  being,  with  a  heart  to  be  melted,  and 
a  conscience  to  be  roused,  like  the  rest  of  us  ;  that 
under  the  turbid  and  surging  tide  of  proud,  e.xaspe- 
lated  feelings,  ran  a  warm  current  of  human  afflic- 
tions,  which,   with  more  genial  influences,   might 
have  flowed  on  deeper  and  stronger,  mingling  its 
waters  with  the  river  of  life.    All  this  each  one  would 
have  known,  could  he  have  looked  into  the  heart  of 
the  poor  criminal  as  God  looketh.      But  his  whole 
life  was  judged  by  a  desperate^  act,  done  in  the  in- 
.sanity  of  passion;  and  the  motives  and  the  circum- 
stances were  revealed  to  the  pul)liconIy  through  the 
cold  barbarisms  of  the  law,  and  the  fierce  exaggera- 
tions of  an  e.xcited  populace  ;   therefore  he  seemed 
like  a  wild  beast,   walled  out  from  human  sympa- 
thies,—not  as  a  fellow-creature,   with   like  passions 
and  feelings  as  themselves. 

Carlyle,  in  his  French  Revolution,  speaking  of  one 
of  the  throe  bloodiest  judges  of  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
says :  <  Marat  too  had  a  brother,  ami  natural  affec- 
tions ;  and  was  wrapt  once  in  swaddling-clothes,  and 
slept  safe  in  a  cradle,  like  the  rest  of  us.'  We  are 
too  apt  to  forget  these  gentle  considerations  when 
talking  of  public  criminals. 

If  we  looked  into  our  souls  with  a  more  wise  hu- 
mility, we  should  discover,  in  our  own  ungoverned 
anger  the  germ  of  murder  ;  and  meekly  thank  God 
that  we,  too,  had  not  been  brought  into  temptations 
too  fiery  for  our  strength.  It  is  sad  to  think  how 
the  records  of  a  few  evil  days  may  blot  out  from  the 
memory  of  our  fellow-men  whole  years  of  generous 
thoughts  and  deeds  of  kindness  ;  and  this,  too,  when 
each  one  has  before  him  the  volume  of  his  own 
broken  resolutions,  and  oft-repeated  sins.  The  temp- 
tation which  most  easily  besets  you,  needed,  per- 
haps, to  be  only  a  lillle  stronger  ;  you  needed  only 


to  be  surrounded  by  circumstances  a  little  more  dan- 
gerous and  exciting,  and  perhaps  you,  who  now  walk 
abroad  in  the  sunshine  of  respectability,  might  have 
come  under  the  ban  of  human  laws,  as  you  have 
into  frequent  disobedience  of  the  divine ;  aird  then 
that  one  foul  blot  wx)uld  have  been  regarded  as  the 
hieroglyphic  symbol  of  your  wliole  life.  Between 
you  and  the  inmate  of  the  penitentiary,  society  sees 
a  difference  so  great,  that  you  are  scarcely  recogniz- 
ed as  belonging  to  the  same  species ;  but  there  is 
One  who  judgeth  not  as  man  judgeth. 

When  Mrs.  Fry  sjTOke  at  Newgate,  she  was  wont 
to  address  both  prisoners  and  visiters  as  sinners. 
When  Dr.  (.'banning  alluded  to  this  practice,  she 
meekly  replied,  <  In  the  sight  of  God,  there  is  not, 
perhaps,  so  much  difference  as  men  think.'  In  the 
midst  of  recklessness,  revenge,  and  despair,  there  is 
often  a  glimmering  evidence  that  the  divine  spark  is 
not  quite  extinguished.  Who  can  tell  into  what  a 
holy  flame  of  benevolence  and  self-sacrifice  it  might 
have  been  kindled,  had  the  man  been  surrouniled 
from  his  cradle  by  an  atmosphere  of  love  ? 

Surely  these  considerations  should  make  us  judge 
mercifully  of  the  sinner,  while  we  hate  the  sin  with 
tenfold  intensity,  because  it  is  an  enemy  that  lies  in 
wait  for  us  all.  The  highest  and  holiest  example 
teaches  us  to  forgive  all  crimes,  while  we  palliate 
none. 

Would  that  we  could  learn  to  be  kind — always 
and  everywhere  kind !  Every  jealous  thought  I 
cherish,  every  angry  word  I  utter,  every  repulsive 
tone,  is  helping  to  build  penitentiaries  and  prisons, 
and  to  fill  them  with  those  who  merely  carry  the 
same  passions  and  feelings  farther  than  I  do.  It  is 
an  awful  thought;  and  the  more  it  is  impressed  upon 
me,  the  more  earnestly  do  I  pray  to  live  in  a  state 
of  perpetual  benediction. 

'  Love  bath  n  longing  and  a  prwpr  to  save  the  patliered  world. 
And  rescue  universal  man  from  the  hunting  hell-hounds  of  his 
doings.' 

And  so  I  return,  as  the  old  preachers  used  to  say, 
to  my  first  proposition  ;  that  we  should  think  gently 
of  all,  and  claim  kindred  with  all,  and  include  all, 
without  exception,  in  the  circle  of  our  kindly  sym- 
pathies. I  would  not  thrust  out  even  the  hangman, 
though  methinks  if  I  were  dying  of  thirst,  I  would 
rather  wait  to  receive  water  from  another  hand  than 
his.  Yet  what  is  the  hangman  but  a  servant  of  the 
law?  And  what  is  the  law  but  an  expression  of 
public  opinion  ?  And  if  public  opinion  be  brutal, 
and  thou  a  component  part  thereof,  art  tliou  not  the 
hangman's  accomplice  ?  In  the  name  of  our  com- 
mon Father,  sing  tliy  part  of  the  great  chorus  in  the 
truest  time,  and  thus  bring  this  crashing  discord  into 
iiarmony ! 

And  if  at  times,  the  discoid  proves  too  strong  for 
thee,  go  out  into  the  great  temple  of  Nature,  and 
drink  in  freshness  from  her  never-failing  fountain, 
ihc  devices  of  men   pass  away  as  a  vapour ;  but 


VOICES   OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


^  OK  TH£       '^. 


she  changes  never.  Above  all  fluctuations  of  opi- 
nion, and  all  the  tumult  of  the  passions,  she  smiles 
ever,  in  various  but  unchanging  beauty.  I  have 
gone  to  her  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  with  a  heart  full 
of  the  saddest  forebodings,  for  myself  and  all  the  hu- 
man race  ;  and  lo,  she  has  shown  me  a  babe  pluck- 
ing a  white  clover,  with  busy,  uncertain  little  fingers, 
and  the  child  walked  straight  into  my  heart,  and 
prophesied  as  hopefully  as  an  angel ;  and  I  believed 
her,  and  went  on  my  way  rejoicing.  The  language 
of  nature,  like  that  of  music,  is  universal ;  it  speaks 
to  the  heart,  and  is  understood  by  all.  Dialects 
belong  to  clans  and  sects;  tones  to  the  universe. 
High  above  all  language,  floats  music  on  its  amber 
cloud.  It  is  not  the  exponent  oi'  opiniun,  but  o[ feel- 
ing. The  heart  made  it ;  therefore  it  is  infinite.  It 
reveals  more  than  language  can  ever  utter,  or 
thoughts  conceive.  And  high  as  music  is  above 
mere  dialects — winging  its  godlike  way,  while  verbs 
and  nouns  go  creeping — even  so  sounds  the  voice  of 
Love,  that  clear,  treble-note  of  the  universe,  into  the 
heart  of  man,  and  the  ear  of  Jehovah. 

In  sincere  humility  do  I  acknowledge  that  if  I  am 
less  guilty  than  some  of  my  human  brothers,  it  is 
mainly  because  I  have  been  beloved.  Kind  emotions 
and  impulses  have  not  been  sent  back  to  me,  like 
dreary  echoes,  through  empty  rooms.  All  round  me 
at  this  moment  are  tokens  of  a  friendly  heart- warmth. 
A  sheaf  of  dried  grasses  brings  near  the  gentle 
image  of  one  who  gathered  them  for  love  ;  a  varied 
group  of  the  graceful  lady-fern  tells  me  of  summer 
rambles  in  the  woods,  by  one  who  mingled  thoughts 
of  me  with  all  her  glimpses  of  nature's  beauty.     A 


Nay,  verily;  for  it  often  humbles  ili^;§)[)it^fj((,,*ttr'" 
think  how  much  I  am  loved  more  than  1  d«serve  ; 
while  thousands,  far  nearer  to  God,  pass  on  their 
thorny  path,  comparatively  uncheered  by  love  and 
blessing.  But  it  came  into  my  heart  to  tell  you  how- 
much  these  things  helped  me  to  be  good ,-  how  they 
were  like  roses  dropped  by  unseen  hands,  guiding  me 
through  a  wilderness-path  unto  our  Father's  man- 
sion. And  the  love  that  helps  me  to  be  good,  I 
would  have  you  bestow  upon  all,  that  all  may  be- 
come good.  To  love  others  is  greater  happiness 
than  to  be  beloved  by  them ;  to  do  good  is  more  bles- 
sed than  to  receive.  The  heart  of  Jesus  was  so  full 
of  love,  that  he  called  little  children  to  his  aims,  and 
folded  John  upon  his  bosom  ;  and  this  love  made 
him  capable  of  such  divine  self-renunciation,  that  he 
could  offer  up  even  his  life  for  the  good  of  the  world. 
The  desire  to  be  beloved  is  ever  restless  and  unsatis- 
fied ;  but  the  love  that  flows  out  upon  others  is  a 
perpetual  well-spring  from  on  high.  This  source  of 
happiness  is  within  the  reach  of  all ;  here,  if  not 
elsewhere,  may  the  stranger  and  the  friendless  satisfy 
the  infinite  yearnings  of  the  human  heart,  and  find 
therein  refreshment  and  joy. 

Believe  me,  the  great  panacea  for  all  the  disorders 
in  the  universe,  is  Love.  For  thousands  of  years  the 
world  has  gone  on  perversely,  trying  to  overcome 
evil  with  evil ;  with  the  worst  results,  as  the  con- 
dition of  things  plainly  testifies.  Nearly  two  thou- 
sand years  ago,  the  prophet  of  the  Highest  proclaim- 
ed that  evil  could  be  overcome  only  with  good.  But 
'  when  the  Son  of  Man  cometh,  shall  he  find  faith 
on  the  earth  ?'     If  we  have  faith  in  this  holy  princi- 


rose-bush,  from  a  poor  Irish  woman,  speaks  to  me  of   pie,  where  is  it  written  on  our  laws  or  our  customs? 


her  blessings.  A  bird  of  paradise,  sent  by  friend- 
ship to  warm  the  wintry  hours  with  thoughts  of  sun- 
ny Eastern  climes,  cheers  me  with  its  floating  beau- 
ty, like  a  fairy  fancy.  Flower-tokens  from  the  best 
of  neighbors,  have  come  all  summer  long,  to  bid  me 
a  blithe  good  morning,  and  tell  me  news  of  sunshine 
and  fresh  air.  A  piece  of  sponge,  graceful  as  if  it 
grew  on  the  arms  of  the  wave,  reminds  me  of  Gre- 
cian seas,  and  of  Hylas  borne  away  by  water- 
nymphs.  It  was  given  me  for  its  uncommon  beau- 
ty; and  who  will  not  try  harder  to  be  good,  for 
being  deemed  a  fit  recipient  of  the  beautiful  ?  A  root, 
which  promises  to  bloom  into  fragrance,  is  sent  by 
an  old  Quaker  lady,  whom  I  know  not,  but  who 
says,  '  I  would  fain  minister  to  thy  love  of  flowers.' 
Affection  sends  childhood  to  peep  lovingly  at  me 
from  engravings,  or  stand  in  classic  grace,  embodied 
in  the  little  plaster  cast.  The  far-off  and  the  near, 
the  past  and  the  future,  are  with  me  in  my  humble 
apartment.  True,  the  mementoes  cost  little  of  the 
world's  wealth ;  for  they  are  of  the  simplest  kind ; 
but  they  express  the  universe — because  they  are 
thoughts  of  love,  clothed  in  forms  of  beauty. 

Why  do  I  mention  these  things  1     From  vanity? 


Write  it  on  thine  own  life  :  and  men  reading  it 
shall  say,  lo,  something  greater  than  vengeance  is 
here  ;  a  power  mightier  than  coercion.  And  thus 
the  individual  faith  shall  become  a  social  faith  ;  and 
to  the  mountains  of  crime  around  us,  it  will  say, 
'  Be  thou  removed,  and  cast  into  the  depths  of  the 
sea !'  and  they  will  be  removed  ;  and  the  places  that 
knew  them  shall  know  them  no  more. 

This  hope  is  coming  toward  us,  with  a  halo  of 
sunshine  round  its  head  ;  in  the  light  it  casts  before, 
let  us  do  works  of  zeal  with  the  spirit  of  love.  Man 
may  be  redeemed  from  his  thraldom  !  He  will  be 
redeeined.  For  the  mouth  of  the  Most  High  hath 
spoken  it.  It  is  inscribed  in  written  prophecy,  and 
He  utters  it  to  our  hearts  in  perpetual  revelation. 
To  you,  and  me,  and  each  of  us.  He  says,  <  Go,  bring 
my  people  out  of  Egypt,  into  the  promised  land.' 

To  perform  this  mission,  we  must  love  both  the 
evil  and  the  good,  and  shower  blessings  on  the  just 
as  well  as  the  unjust.  Thanks  to  our  Heavenly 
Father,  I  have  had  much  friendly  aid  on  my  own  spi- 
ritual pilgrimage ;  through  many  a  cloud  has  pierced 
a  sunbeam,  and  over  many  a  pitlall  have  I  been 
guided  by  a  garland.  In  gratitude  for  this,  fain  would 


174 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


I  help  others  to  be  good,  according  to  the  small  mea- 
sure of  my  ability.  My  spiritual  adventures  are 
like  those  of  the  <  little  boy  that  run  away  from  Pro- 
vidence.' When  troubled  or  discouraged,  my  soul 
seats  itself  on  some  door-step — there  is  ever  some 
one  to  welcome  me  in,  and  make  'a  nice  little  bed' 
for  my  weary  heart.  It  may  be  a  young  friend, 
who  gathers  for  me  flowers  in  summer,  and  grasses, 
ferns,  and  red  berries  in  the  autumn ;  or  it  may 
be  sweet  Mary  Howitt,  whose  mission  it  is  '  to  turn 
the  sunny  side  of  things  to  human  eyes  ;'  or  Charles 
Dickens,  who  looks  with  such  deep  and  friendly 
glance  into  the  human  heart,  whether  it  beats  be- 
neath embroidered  vest,  or  tattered  jacket ;  or  the 
serene  and  gentle  Fenelon  ;  or  the  devout  Thomas 
a  Kempis  ;  or  the  meek-spirited  John  Woolman  ;  or 
the  eloquent  hopefulness  of  Channing  ;  or  the  cathe- 
dral tones  of  Keble,  or  the  saintly  beauty  of  Raphael, 
or  the  clear  melody  of  Handel.  All  speak  to  me 
with  friendly  greeting,  and  have  somewhat  to  give 
my  thirsty  soul.  Fain  would  I  do  the  same,  for 
all  who  come  to  my  door-slep,  hungry,  and  cold, 
spiritually  or  naturally.  To  the  erring  and  the 
guilty,  above  all  others,  the  door  of  my  heart  shall 
never  open  outward.  I  have  too  much  need  of  mercy. 
Are  we  not  all  children  of  the  same  Father  ?  and 
shall  we  not  pity  those  who  among  pit-falls  lose 
their  way  home  ? 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT. 

BY  TnOM.\S  PRIXfiLE. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 

When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o'ercast, 

And,  sick  of  the  present,  I  cling  to  the  past; 

When  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears, 

From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years  ; 

And  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since  fled 

Flit  over  the  brain,  like  ghosts  of  the  dead  : 

Bright  visions  of  glory,  that  vanished  too  soon. 

Day-dreams,  that  departed  ere  manhood's  noon; 

Attachments,  by  fate  or  by  falsehood  reft ; 

Companions  of  early  days,  lost  or  left ; 

And  my  native  land,  whose  magical  name 

Thrills  to  the  heart  like  electric  flame  ; 

The  home  of  my  childhood  ;  the  haunts  of  my  prime ; 

All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time 

When  the  feelings  were  young  and  the  world  was  new. 

Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  unfolding  to  view  ; 

All,  all  now  forsaken,  forgotten,  forgone  ; 

And  I,  a  lone  exile,  remembered  by  none  ; 

My  high  aims  abandoned,  my  good  acts  undone, 

Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun  ; — 

With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stran'j;er  may 

scan, 
I  fly  to  the  desert  afar  from  man  I 


Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush.boy  alone  by  my  side  : 
When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life, 
With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption  and  strife  ; 
The  proud  man's  frown  and  the  base  man's  fear, 
The  scorner's  laugh  and  the  sufferer's  tear, 
And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood,  and  folly, 
Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy; 
When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts  are  high, 
And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman's  sigh, — 
0,  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and  pride, 
.Afar  in  the  desert  alone  to  ride! 
There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing  steed, 
And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle's  speed. 
With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my  hand, — 
The  only  law  of  the  desert  land  ! 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 

.'^way,  away  from  the  dwellings  of  men, 

By  the  wild  deer's  haunt,  by  the  buffalo's  glen; 

By  the  valleys  remote  where  the  oribi  plays, 

Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartebeest  graze. 

And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted  recline 

By  the  skirts  of  gray  forests  o'erhung  with  wild-vine  ; 

Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood. 

And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood, 

And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 

In  the  fen  where  the  wild  ass  is  dinking  his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 
O'er  the  brown  karroo,  where  the  fleeting  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plaintively. 
And  the  timorous  quagga's  shrill-whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight  gray  ; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 
With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate  plain  ; 
And  the  fleet  footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels  in  haste. 
Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest. 
Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scooped  their  nest, 
Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer's  view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  parched  karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride. 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  b)'  my  side  ; 
Away,  away,  in  the  wilderness  vast. 
Where  the  white  man's  foot  hath  never  passed. 
And  the  quivered  Coranna  or  Bechuan 
Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan  ; 
A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear, 
Which  man  hath  abandoned  from  famine  and  fear  ; 
Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone. 
With  the  twilight  bat  from  the  yawning  stone  ; 
Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root. 
Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot ; 
AikI  the  bitter  melon,  for  food  and  drink, 
s  the  pilgrim's  fare  by  the  salt  lake's  brink  ; 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


176 


A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides, 
Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiercd  sides  ; 
"Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 
Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 
Appears  to  refresh  the  aching  eye  ; 
But  the  barren  earth,  and  the  burning  sky, 
And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round. 
Spread,  void  of  living  sight  or  sound. 

And  here,  while  the  night-winds  round  me  sigh, 
And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight  sky. 
As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone. 
Like  Elijah  at  Horeb's  cave  alone, 
A  still  small  voice  comes  through  the  wild. 
Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child. 
Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath  and  fear. 
Saying, — Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near  ! 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  ENDYMION. 

Lone  upon  a  mountain,  the  pine-trees  wailing  round 
him, 
Lone  upon  a  mountain  the  Grecian  youth  is  laid  ; 
Sleep,  mystic  sleep,  for  many  a  year  has  bound  him, 
Yet  his    beauty,  like  a  statue's,  pale  and  fair,  is 
undecayed, 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

When  will  he  awaken  ?  a  loud  voice  hath  been  crying 

Night  after  night,  and  the  cry  has  been  in  vain  ; 
Winds,  woods,  and  waves  found  echoes  for  replying, 
But  the  tones  of  the  beloved  ones  were  never  heard 
again. 

When  will  he  awaken? 
Asked  the  midnight's  silver  queen. 

Never  mortal  eye  has  looked  upon  his  sleeping  ; 
Parents,  kindred,  comrades  have  mourned  for  him 
as  dead; 
By  day  the  gathered  clouds  have  had  him  in  their 
keeping. 
And  at  night  the  solemn  shadows  round  his  rest 
are  shed. 

When  will  he  awaken  1 

Long  has  been  the  cry  of  faithful  Love's  imploring  ; 
Long  has  Hope  been  watching  with  soft  eyes  fixed 
above  ; 
When  will  the  Fates,  the  life  of  life  restoring. 
Own  themselves  vanquished  by  much-enduring 
Love  ? 

When  will  he  awaken? 
Asks  the  midnight's  weary  queen. 


Beautiful  the  sleep  tl^at  she  has  watched  untiring, 
Lighted  up  with  visions  from  yonder  radiant  sky. 

Full  of  an  immortal's  glorious  inspiring. 

Softened  by  a  woman's  meek  and  loving  sigh. 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 

He  has  been  dreaming  of  old  heroic  stories, 

And  the  poet's  world  has  entered  in  his  soul ; 
He  has  grown  conscious  of  life's  ancestral  glories. 
When  sages  and  when  kings  first  upheld  the  mind's 
control. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Asks  the  midnight's  stately  queen. 

Lo,   the  appointed  midnight !    the  present  hour  is 
fated  ; 
It  is  Endymion's  planet  that  rises  on  the  air  ; 
How  long,  how  tenderly  his  goddess  love  has  waited  ; 
Waited  with  a  love  too  mighty  for  despair  ! 
Soon  he  will  awaken  I 

Soft  amid  the  pines  is  a  sound  as  if  of  singing, 
Tones  that  seem  the   lute's  from  the  breathing 
flowers  depart ; 
Not  a  wind  that  wanders  o'er  Mount  Latmos  but  is 
bringing 
Music  that  is  murmured  from  Nature's  inmost  heart. 
Soon  he  will  awaken 
To  his  and  midnight's  queen  ! 

Lovely  is  the  green  earth, — she  knows  the  hour  is 
holy; 
Starry  are  the  heavens,  lit  with  eternal  joy  ; 
Light  like  their  own  is  dawning  sweet  and  slowly 
O'er  the  fair  and  sculptured  forehead  of  that  yet 
dreaming  boy. 

Soon  he  will  awaken  ! 

Red  as  the  red  rose  towards  the  morning  turning. 
Warms  the  youth's  lip  to  the  watcher's  near  his 
own  ; 
While  the  dark  eyes  open, bright,  intense,  and  burning 
With  a  life  more  glorious  than,  ere  they  closed, 
was  known. 

Yes,  he  has  awakened 
For  the  midnight's  happy  queen  ! 

What  is  this  old  history,  but  a  lesson  given, 

How  true  love  still  conquers  by  the  deep  strength 
of  truth, — 
How  all  the  impulses,  whose  native  home  is  heaven, 
Sanctify  the  visions  of  hope,  and  faith,  and  youth? 
'T  is  for  such  they  waken  I 

When  every  worldly  thought  is  utterly  forsaken. 
Comes  the  starry  midnight,  felt  by  life's  gifted 
few ; 
Then  will  the  spirit  from  its  earthly  sleep  awaken 
To  a  being  more  intense,  more  spiritual,  and  true. 
So  doth  the  soul  awaken, 
Like  that  youth  to  night's  fair  queen! 


176 


VOICES  OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


THE  INFANT'S  DREAM. 

Oh  I  cradle  me  on  thy  knee,  mamma, 

AnJ  sing  me  the  holy  strain 
That  soothed  me  last,  as  you  fondly  prest 
My  glowing  cheek  to  your  soft  white  breast ; 
For  I  saw  a  scene  when  I  slumbered  last. 

That  I  fain  would  see  again. 

And  smile  as  you  then  did  smile,  mamma, 

And  weep  as  you  then  did  weep  ; 
Then  fix  on  me  thy  glistening  eye, 
And  gaze  and  gaze  'till  the  tear  be  dry. 
Then  rock  me  gently,  and  sing  and  sigh, 

Till  you  lull  me  fast  asleep. 

For  I  dream'd  a  heavenly  dream,  mamma, 

While  slumbering  on  thy  knee, 
I  lived  in  a  land  where  forms  divine 
In  kingdoms  of  glory  eternally  shine, 
And  the  world  I'd  give,  if  the  world  were  mine. 

Again  that  land  to  see. 

1  fancied  we  roam'd  in  a  wood,  mamma, 

And  we  rested,  as  under  a  bough; 
Then  near  me  a  butterfly,  flaunted  in  pride  ; 
And  I  chased  it  away  through  the  forest  wide,j 
And  the  night  came  on  and  I  lost  my  guide. 

And  I  knew  not  what  to  do. 

My  heart  grew  sick  with  fear,  mamma, 

And  I  loudly  wept  for  thee ; 
But  a  white-rob"d  maiden  appear'd  in  the  air, 
And  she  flung  back  the  curls  of  her  golden  hair, 
A  nd  she  kiss'd  me  softly  ere  I  was  aware, 

Saying  "  come  pretty  babe  with  me." 

My  tears  and  fears  she  beguiled,  mamma. 

And  she  led  me  far  away  ; 
We  enter'd  the  door  of  the  dark,  dark  tomb. 
We  pass'd  through  a  long,  long  vault  of  gloom ; 
Then  open'd  our  eyes  on  a  land  of  bloom, 

And  a  sky  of  endless  day. 

And  heavenly  forms  were  there,  mamma. 

And  lovely  cherubs  bright ; 
They  smiled  when  they  saw  me,  but  I  was  amaz'd, 
And  wond'ring,  round  me,  I  gaz'd  and  gaz'd, 
And  songs  I  heard,  and  sunny  beams  blaz'd  ; 

All  glorious  in  the  land  of  light. 

But  soon  came  a  shining  throng,  mamma, 

Of  white-winged  babes  to  mc  ; 
Their  eyes  looked  love,  and  their  sweet  lips  smil'd, 
And  they  marvcU'd  to  meet  with  an  earth-born  child ; 
And  they  gloried  that  I  from  the  earth  was  exil'd. 

Saying,  "here  love,  blest  thou  shalt  be." 

Then  I  mixed  with  the  heavenly  throng,  mamma, 

With  cherub  and  seraphim  fair  ; 
And  saw  as  I  roam'd  the  regions  ol  peace, 


The  spirits  which  came  from  this  world  of  distress  ; 
AnJ  there  was  the  joy  no  tongue  can  express, 
For  they  know  no  sorrow  there. 

Do  you  mind  when  sister  Jane,  mamma, 

Lay  dead,  a  short  time  agone  ? 
Oh  I  you  gaz'd  on  the  sad,  but  lovely  wreck. 
With  a  full  flood  of  woe,  you  could  not  check, 
And  your  heart  was  so  sore  you  wish'd  it  would 
break, 

But  it  lov'd,  and  you  still  sobbed  on  ! 

But  Oh  !  had  you  been  with  me,  mamma, 

In  realms  of  unknown  care  ; 
And  seen  what  I  saw,  you  ne'er  had  cried, 
Though  they  buried  pretty  Jane  in  the  grave  when 

she  died, 
For  shining  with  the  blest,  and  adorn'd  like  a  bride, 

Sweet  sister  Jane  was  there. 

Do  you  mind  that  silly  old  man,  mamma. 

Who  came  very  late  to  our  door. 
And  the  night  was  dark,  and  the  tempest  loud. 
And  his  heart  was  sick,  and  his  soul  was  proud, 
And  his  ragged  old  mantle  serv'd  for  his  shroud. 

Ere  the  midnight  hour  was  o'er  1 

And  think  what  a  weight  of  wo,  mamma. 

Made  heavy  each  long  drawn  sigh. 
As  the  good  man  sat  on  papa's  old  chair, 
While  the  rain  dripp'd  down  from  his  thin  grey  hair. 
And  fast  as  the  big  tear  of  speechless  care 

Ran  down  from  his  glazing  eye. 

And  think  what  a  heavenly  look,  mamma, 

Flash'd  through  each  trembling  tear, 
As  he  told  how  he  went  to  the  baron's  strong  hold, 
Saying  "  Oh !  let  me  in  for  the  night  is  so  cold," 
But  the  rich  man  cried,  "go  sleep  in  the  wold. 

For  we  shield  no  beggars  here." 

Well,  he  was  in  glory  too,  mamma. 

As  happy  as  the  blest  can  be  ; 
He  needed  no  alms  in  the  mansions  of  light. 
For  he  sat  with  the  patriarchs,  clothed  in  white. 
And  there  was  not  a  seraph  had  a  crown  more  bright, 

Nor  a  costlier  robe  than  he. 

Now  sing,  for  I  fain  would  sleep  mamma. 

And  dream  as  I  dream'd  before. 
For  sound  was  my  slumber,  and  sweet  was  my  rest. 
While  my  spirit  in  the  kingdom'of  Life  was  a  guest. 
And  the  heart  that  has  throbb'd  in  the  climes  of  the 
blest. 

Can  love  this  world  no  more. 


"  There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love  ; 
''i'will  make  a  tiling  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain  or  break  the  heart." 

WoKUSWOKTU. 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE  HEARTED. 


THE    BEAUTIFUL. 

BY  JOHN   G.  WIIITTIER. 

"  A  beautiful  form  is  better  than  a  beautiful  face  ; 
a  beautiful  behavior  is  better  than  a  beautiful  form  ; 
it  gives  a  higher  pleasure  than  statues  or  pictures ; 
it  is  the  finest  of  the  fine  arts." — Einerson''s  Essays, 
Second  Series,  iv.  p.  162. 

A  few  days  since,  I  was  walking  with  a  friend, 
who,  unfortunately  for  himself,  seldom  meets  with 
any  thing  in  the  world  of  realities  worthy  of  com. 
parison  with  the  ideal  of  his  fancy,  which,  like  the 
bird  in  the  Arabian  tale,  glides  perpetually  before 
him,  always  near,  yet  never  overtaken.  I  felt  my 
arm  suddenly  pressed.  '■  Did  you  see  that  lady, 
who  has  just  passed  us  ?"  he  inquired.  I  turned  and 
threw  back  a  glance.  "  I  see  her,"  I  replied  ;  "  a 
good  figure,  and  quite  a  graceful  step — what  of  her  ?" 
"  Why,  she  is  almost  beautiful, — in  fact  very  nearly 
perfect,"  said  my  friend.  "  I  have  seen  her  several 
times  before,  and  were  it  not  for  a  chin  slightly  out 
of  proportion,  I  should  be  obliged  to  confess  that 
there  is  at  least  one  handsome  woman  in  the  city." 
"  And  but  one,  I  suppose,"  said  I,  laughingly. 
'<  That  I  am  sure  of,"  said  he.  "  I  have  been  to  all 
the  churches,  from  the  Catholic  to  the  Mormon,  and 
on  all  the  Corporations,  and  there  is  not  a  handsome 
woman  here,  although  she  whom  we  have  just  pass- 
ed comes  nearer  the  standard  than  any  other.' 

Just  as  if  there  were  any  standard  of  beauty, — a 
fixed,  arbitrary  model  of  form  and  feature,  and  color  ! 
The  bea'jty  which  my  friend  seemed  in  search  of, 
was  that  of  proportion  and  coloring  ;  mechanical  ex- 
actness ;  a  due  combination  of  soft  curves,  and  obtuse 
angles,  of  warm  carnation,  and  marble  purity  !  Such 
a  man,  for  aught  I  can  see,  might  love  a  graven  image, 
like  the  girl  of  Florence,  who  pined  into  a  shadow 
for  the  Apollo  Eelvidere,  looking  coldly  on  her  with 
his  stony  eyes,  from  his  niche  in  the  Vatican.  One 
thing  is  certain  ;  he  will  never  find  his  faultless  piece 
of  artistical  perfection,  by  searching  for  it  amidst 
flesh  and  blood  realities.  Nature  does  not,  as  far  as 
I  can  perceive,  work  with  square  and  compass,  or 
lay  on  her  colors  by  the  rules  of  royal  artists,  or  the 
dunces  of  the  academies.  She  eschews  regular  out- 
lines. She  does  not  shape  her  forms  by  a  common 
model.  Not  one  of  Eve's  numerous  progeny  in  all 
respects  resembles  her  who  first  culled  the  flowers 
of  Eden.  It  is  in  the  infinite  variety  and  picturesque 
inequality  of  Nature,  that  her  great  charm  and  un- 
cloying  beauty  consists.      Look  at   her  primitive 


woods — scattered  trees  with  moist  sward  and  bright 
mosses  at  their  roots — great  clumps  of  green  sha- 
dow, where  limb  entwists  with  limb,  and  the  rustle 
of  one  leaf  stirs  a  hundred  others — stretching  up 
steep  hill-sides,  flooding  with  green  beauty  the  val- 
leys, or  arching  over  with  leaves  the  sharp  ravines, — 
every  tree  and  shrub  unlike  its  neighbor  in  size  and 
proportion — the  old  and  storm-broken  leaning  on  the 
young  and  vigorous — intricate  and  confused,  with- 
out order  or  method  !  Who  would  exchange  this 
for  artificial  French  gardens,  where  every  tree  stands 
stiff  and  regular,  clipped  and  trimmed  into  unvary- 
ing conformity,  like  so  many  grenadiers  under  re- 
view ?  Who  wants  eternal  sunshine  or  shadow  ? 
Who  would  fix  for  ever  the  loveliest  cloud-work  of 
an  autumn  sunset ;  or  hang  over  him  an  everlast- 
ing moonlight  ?  If  the  stream  had  no  quiet  eddying 
place,  could  we  so  admire  its  cascade  over  the  rocks  ? 
Were  there  no  clouds,  could  we  so  hail  the  sky 
shining  through  them  in  its  still,  calm  purity  ?  Who 
shall  venture  to  ask  our  kind  Mother  Nature  to  re- 
move from  our  sight  any  one  of  her  forms  or  colors  ? 
Who  shall  decide  which  is  beautiful,  or  otherwise, 
in  itself  considered  ? 

There  are  too  many  like  my  fastidious  friend, 
who  go  through  the  world  "  from  Dan  to  Beershee- 
ba,  finding  all  barren" — who  have  always  some  fault 
or  other  to  find  with  Nature  and  Providence,  seem- 
ing to  consider  themselves  especially  ill-used  be- 
cause the  one  does  not  always  coincide  with  their 
taste,  nor  the  other  with  their  narrow  notions  of  per- 
sonal convenience.  In  one  of  his  early  poems, 
Coleridge  has  beautifully  expressed  a  truth,  which 
is  not  the  less  important  because  it  is  not  generally 
admitted.  I  have  not  in  my  mind  at  this  moment 
the  entire  passage,  but  the  idea  is  briefly  this  :  that 
the  mind  gives  to  all  things  their  coloring,  their 
gloom  or  gladness;  that  tlie  pleasure  we  derive  from 
external  Nature  is  primarily  from  ourselves  : 

"  From  the  mind  itself  must  issue  fortli 
A  liglit,  a  eliiry,  a  fair  luminous  mist, 
Euveloping  the  earth." 

The  real  difficulty  of  these  life-long  hunters  after 
the  Beautiful,  exists  in  their  own  spirits.  They 
set  up  certain  models  of  perfection  in  their  imagina- 
tions, and  then  go  about  the  world  in  the  vain  ex- 
pectation of  finding  them  actually  wrought  out  ac- 
cording to  pattern  ;  very  unreasonably  calculating 
that  nature  will  suspend  her  everlasting  laws  for  the 
purpose  of  creating  faultless  prodigies  for  their  espe- 
cial gratification. 

23 


178 


VOICES    OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


The  authors  of  "  Gaities  and  Gravities,"  give  it  [ 
as  their  opinion,  that  no  ohject  of  sight  is  regard- 
ed by  us  as  a  simple,  disconnected  form,  but  that  an 
instantaneous  reflection  as  to  its  history,  purpose,  or 
associations,  converts  it  into  a  concrete  one — a  pro- 
cess,  they  shrewdly  remark,  which  no  thinking  being 
can  prevent,  and  which  can  only  be  avoided  by  the 
unmeaning  and  stolid  stare  of  "  a  goose  on  the  com- 
mon, or  a  cow  on  the  green."  The  senses  and  the 
faculties  of  the  understanding  are  so  blended  with, 
and  dependent  upon,  each  other,  that  not  one  of  them 
can  exercise  its  office  alone,  and  without  the  modi- 
fication of  some  extrinsic  interference  or  suggestion. 
Grateful  or  unpleasant  associations  cluster  around 
all  which  sense  takes  cognizance  of:  the  beauty 
which  we  discern  in  an  external  object  is  often  but 
the  reflection  of  our  own  minds. 

What  is  Beauty,  after  all?  Ask  the  lover,  who 
kneels  in  homage  to  one  who  has  no  attractions  for 
others.  The  cold  on-looker  wonders  that  he  can  call 
that  unclassic  combination  of  features,  and  that  awk- 
ward form,  beautiful.  Yet  so  it  is.  He  sees,  like 
Desdemona,  her  "  visage  in  her  mind,"  or  her  affec- 
tions. A  light  from  within  shines  through  the  ex- 
ternal uncomelinesss,  softens,  irradiates  and  glorifies 
it.  That  which  to  others  seems  common-place  and 
unworthy  of  note,  is  to  him,  in  the  words  of  Spenser, 

"  A  sweet,  attractive  kind  of  grace, 

A  full  assurance  given  bv  looks, 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face. 

The  lineaments  of  (Jospel  book'*." 

"  Handsome  is  that  handsome  does — hold  up  your 
heads,  girls  !"  was  the  language  of  Primrose  in  the 
play,  when  addressing  her  daughters.  The  worthy 
matron  was  right.  Would  that  all  my  female  read- 
ers, who  are  sorrowing  foolishly  because  they  are 
not  in  all  respects  like  Dubufe's  Eve,  or  that  Statue 
of  the  Venus,  "  which  enchants  the  world,"  could 
be  persuaded  to  listen  to  her.  What  is  good  look- 
ing, as  Horace  Smith  remarks,  but  looking  good  ?  Be 
good,  be  womanly,  be  gentle — generous  in  your 
sympathies,  heedful  of  the  well-being  of  all  around 
you,  and  my  word  for  it,  you  will  not  lack  kind 
words  ofadmiration.  Loving  and  pleasant  associations 
will  gather  about  you.  Never  mind  the  ugly  reflec- 
tion which  your  glass  may  give  you.  That  mirror 
has  no  heart.  But  quite  another  picture  is  yours 
on  the  retina  of  human  sympathy.  There  the  beau, 
ty  of  holiness,  of  purity,  oftbat  inward  grace  "  which 
passeth  show,"  rests  over  it,  softening  and  mellow- 
ing its  features,  just  as  the  full,  calm  moonlight 
melts  those  of  a  rough  landscape  into  harmonious 
lovelinesss.  '■  Hold  up  your  heads,  girls  I"  I  repeat 
after  Primrose.  Why  should  you  not  ? — Every 
mother's  daughter  of  you  can  be  beautiful.  You  can 
envelope  yourselves  in  an  atmosphere  of  moral  and 
intellectual  beauty,  through  which  your  otherwise 
plain  faces  will  look  forth  like  those  of  angels.  Beau- 
tiful to  Ledyard,  stifltning  in  the  cold  of  a  Northern 


winter,  seemed  the  diminutive,  smoke-stained  wo- 
men of  Lapland,  who  wrapped  him  in  their  furs, 
and  ministered  to  his  necessities  with  kindness  and 
gentle  words  of  compassion.  Lovely  to  the  home- 
sick heart  of  Park  seemed  the  dark  maids  of  Sego, 
as  they  sung  their  low  and  simple  song  of  welcome 
beside  his  bed,  and  sought  to  comfort  the  white 
stranger,  who  had  "  no  mother  to  bring  him  milk, 
and  no  wife  to  grind  him  corn."  0  !  talk  as  we 
may,  of  beauty  as  a  thing  to  be  chiselled  from  mar- 
ble or  wrought  out  on  canvass, — speculate  as  we 
may  upon  its  colors  and  outlines,  what  is  it  but  an 
intellectual  abstraction,  after  all?  The  heart  feels 
a  beauty  of  another  kind  ; — looking  through  the  out- 
ward environment,  it  discovers  a  deeper  and  more 
real  loveliness. 

This  was  well  understood  by  the  old  painters.  In 
their  pictures  of  Mary,  the  Virgin  Mother,  the  beau- 
ty which  melts  and  subdues  the  gazer,  is  that  of  the 
soul  and  the  affections — uniting  the  awe  and  myste- 
ry of  that  mother's  miraculous  allotment  with  the 
irrepressible  love,  the  unutterable  tenderness  of 
young  maternity — Heaven's  crowning  miracle  with 
Nature's  holiest  and  sweetest  instinct.  And  their 
pale  Magdalens,  holy  with  the  look  of  sins  forgiven, 
how  the  divine  beauty  of  their  penitence  sinks  into  the 
heart  ?  Do  we  not  feel  that  the  only  real  deformity 
is  sin,  and  that  goodness  evermore  hallows  and  sanc- 
tifies its  dwelling  place  ?  When  the  soul  is  at  rest, 
when  the  passions  and  desires  are  all  attuned  to  the 
divine  harmony, — 

"  Spirits  moving  musically 
To  a  lute's  well  ordered  law,"' 

do  we  not  read  the  placid  significance  thereof  in  the 
human  coiuitenance  ?  "I  have  seen,"  said  Charles 
Lamb,  "  faces  upon  which  the  dove  of  peace  sat 
brooding."  In  that  simple  and  beautiful  record  of 
a  holy  life,  the  Journal  of  John  Woolman,  there  is 
a  passage  of  which  1  have  been  more  than  once  re- 
minded in  my  intercourse  with  my  fellow  beings  : — 
"  Some  glances  of  real  beauty  may  be  seen  in  their 
faces,  who  dwell  in  true  meekness.  There  is  a  har- 
mony in  the  sound  of  that  voice  to  which  divine  love 
gives  utterance." 

Quite  the  ugliest  fac«  I  ever  saw  was  that  of  a 
woman  whom  the  world  calls  beautiful.  Through 
its  "  silver  veil"  the  evil  and  ungentle  passions  look- 
ed out,  hideous  and  hateful.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  are  faces  which  the  multitude  at  the  first  glance 
pronounce  homely,  unattractive,  and  such  as  "nature 
fashions  by  the  gross,"  which  I  always  recognize 
with  a  warm  heart-thrill ;  not  for  the  world  would 
I  have  one  feature  changed  ;  they  please  me  as  they 
are  ;  they  are  hallowed  by  kind  memories  ;  they  are 
beautiful  through  their  associations  ;  nor  are  they 
any  the  less  welcome,  that  with  my  admiration  of 
them,  "the  stranger  intermcddleth  not." 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


179 


A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

BY  ALFRED  DOSIMETT. 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea. 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars, — 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hushed  domain  : 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign. 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago. 

'T  was  in  the  calm  and  silent  night, 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home  : 
Triumphal  arches  gleaming  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway ; 
What  recked  the  Roman  what  befell 

A  paltry  province  far  away. 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago? 

Within  that  province  far  away, 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor  ; 
A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a  half-shut  stable-door 
Across  his  path.     He  passed, — for  naught 

Told  what  was  going  on  within ; 
How  keen  the  stars,  his  only  thought, — 

The  air,  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin, 
In  the  solemn  midnight. 
Centuries  ago  ! 

0,  strange  indiflJerence  !   low  and  high 

Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares  ; 
The  earth  was  still, — but  knew  not  why 

The  world  was  listening, — unawares. 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  for  ever  ! 
To  that  still  moment,  none  would  heed, 

Man's  doom  was  linked  no  more  to  sever, 
In  the  solemn  midnight. 
Centuries  ago. 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night ! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness, — charmed  and  holy  now  ! 
The  night  that  erst  no  shame  had  worn, 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given ; 
For  in  that  stable  lay,  new-born. 

The  peaceful  prince  of  earth  and  heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight. 
Centuries  ago  ! 


THE  GOOD  PART  THAT  SHALL  NOT  BE 
TAKEN  AWAY. 

BY  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

She  dwells  by  Great  Kenhawa's  side, 

In  valleys  green  and  cool ; 
And  all  her  hopes  and  all  her  pride 

Are  in  the  village  school. 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 

That  robes  the  hills  above. 
Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 

All  things  with  arms  of  love. 

And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls 

With  praise  and  mild  rebukes ; 
Subduing  e'en  rude  village  churls 

By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide, 

Of  One  who  came  to  save ; 
To  cast  the  captive's  chain  aside, 

And  liberate  the  slave. 

And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 

When  all  men  shall  be  free  ; 
And  musical,  as  silver  bells. 

Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 

And  following  her  beloved  Lord, 

In  decent  poverty, 
She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 

And  deed  of  charity. 

For  she  was  rich,  and  gave  up  all 

To  break  the  iron  bands 
Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall, 

And  labored  in  her  lands. 

Long  since,  beyond  the  Southern  Sea 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped, 

While  she,  in  meek  humility. 
Now  earns  her  daily  bread. 

It  is  their  prayers,  which  never  cease, 
That  clothe  her  with  such  grace  ; 

Their  blessing  is  the  light  of  peace 
That  shines  upon  her  face. 


So  should  we  live,  that  every  hour 
Should  die,  as  dies  a  natural  flower— 
A  self-reviving  thing  of  power  ; 

That  every  thought,  and  every  deed. 
May  hold  within  itself  the  seed 
Of  future  good,  and  future  meed  ; 

Esteeming  sorrow,— whose  employ 

Is  to  develop  not  destroy, — 

Far  better  than  a  barren  joy.         R-  IM-  Milnes. 


180 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


NOT  ON  THE  BATTLE  FIELD. 

BY  JOUN  I'lEKVOST. 

•'  To  fall  on  the  battle  field,  fighting  fur  my  dear  rountrjr- 
tliat  would  not  be  hurd.— jM5'.  j;/  Mhj  Breiiier'f  •*  tiei^hbura.' 

O,  no,  no, — let  ine  lie 
Not  on  a  field  of  battle,  when  I  die  ! 

Let  not  the  iron  tread 
Ol  the  mad  war-horse  crusli  my  helmed  lu'ad. 

Nor  let  the  reeking  kniCe, 
That  I  have  drawn  against  a  broth ^r^slife, 

Be  in  my  hand,  when  death 
Thunders  along,  and  tramples  me  beneath 

Hi«  heavy  squadron's  heels. 
Or  gory  felloes  of  his  cannon's  wheels. 

From  such  a  dying  bed, 
Though  o'er  it  float  the  stripes  of  white  and  red. 

And  the  bald  Eagle  brings 
The  clustered  stars  upon  his  wide-spread  wings, 

To  sparkle  in  my  sight, 
0,  never  let  my  spirit  take  her  flight. 

I  know  that  beauty's  eye 
Is  all  the  brighter  where  gay  penants  fly. 

And  brazen  helmets  dance, 
And  sunshine  flashes  on  the  lifted  lance  : — 

I  know  that  bards  have  sung, 
And  people  shouted,  till  the  welkin  rung. 

In  honor  of  the  brave, 
Who  on  the  battle-field  have  found  a  grave; — 

1  know  that,  o'er  their  bones, 
Have  grateful  hands  piled  monumental  stones. 

Some  of  these  piles  I've  seen  : — 
The  one  at  Lexington,  upon  the  green, 

Where  the  first  blood  was  shed, 
That  to  my  country's  independence  led; 

And  others,  on  our  shore, 
"  The  battle  monument,"  at  Baltimore, 

And  that  on  Bunker's  Hill, 
Aye,  and  abroad,  a  few  more  famous  still  :— 

Thy  "  Tomb,"  Themistocles, 
That  looks  out  yet  upon  the  Grecian  seas. 

And  which  the  waters  kiss, 
That  issue  from  the  gulf  of  Salamis  : — 

And  thine,  too,  have  I  seen, 
The  mourul  of  earth,  Patroclus.  robed  in  green, 

That,  like  a  natural  knoll. 
Sheep  climb  and  nibble  over,  as  they  stroll, 

Watched  by  some  turban'd  boy, 
Upon  the  margin  of  the  plain  of  Troy. 

Such  honors  grace  the  bed, 
Iknow,  whereon  the  warrior  lays  his  head. 

And  hears,  as  life  ebbs  out, 
The  conquered  flying,  and  the  conqueror's  shout. 

But.  as  his  eyes  grow  dim, 
What  is  a  column,  or  a  mound,  to  him  ? 

What,  to  the  parting  soul, 
The  mellow  notes  of  bugles  ?     What  the  roll 


Of  drums  ?     No — let  me  die 
Where  the  blue  heaven  bends  o'er  me  lovingly, 

And  the  soft  summer  air, 
As  it  goes  by  me,  stirs  my  thin,  white  hair. 

And,  from  my  forehead,  dries 
The  death-damp,  as  it  gathers,  and  the  skies 

Seem  waiting  to  receive 
My  soul  to  their  clear  depths  !     Or,  let  me  leave 

The  world,  when,  round  my  bed, 
Wife,  children,  weeping  friendi  are  gathered. 

And  the  calm  voice  of  prayer 
And  holy  hymning  shall  my  soul  prepare 

To  go  and  be  at  rest 
With  kindred  spirits — spirits  who  have  blessed 

The  human  brotherhood 
By  labors,  cares,  and  counsels  for  their  good. 

And  in  my  dying  hour. 
When  riches,  fame,  and  honor,  have  no  power 

To  bear  the  spirit  up, 
Or  from  my  lips  to  turn  aside  the  cup. 

That  all  must  drink,  at  last, 
0,  let  me  draw  refreshment  from  the  past! 

'i  hen,  let  my  soul  run  back. 
With  peace  and  joy,  along  my  earthly  track, 

And  see  that  all  the  seeds 
That  I  have  scattered  there,  in  virtuous  deeds, 

Have  sprung  up,  and  have  given, 
Already,  fruits  of  which  to  taste  is  heaven  I 

And,  though  no  grassy  mound 
Or  granite  pile,  say  'tis  heroic  ground. 

Where  my  remains  repose, 
Still  will  1  hope — vain  hope,  perhaps  !— that  those 

Whom  I  have  striven  to  bless, — 
The  wanderer  reclaimed,  the  fatherless, — 

May  stand  around  my  grave, 
With  the  poor  prisoner,  and  the  poorer  slave, — 

And  breathe  an  humble  prayer, 
That  they  may  die  like  him,   whose  bones  are 
mouldering  there. 


SONNET. 

BY  WILLIAM  W.  ST0R7  . 

Be  of  good  cheer,  ye  firm  and  dauntless  few, 
Whose  struggle  is  to  work  an  unloved  good  ! 
Ye  shall  be  taunted  by  revilings  rude. 
Ye  shall  be  scorned  for  that  which  ye  pursue  ! 
Yet  faint  not — but  be  ever  strict  and  true  : 
Greatness  must  learn  to  be  misunderstood ; 
And  persecution  is  their  bitter  food. 
Who  the  great  promptings  of  the  spirit  do. 
Though  no  one  seem  to  hear,  yet  every  word 
That  thou  hast  linked  unto  an  earnest  thought 
Hath  fiery  wings,  and  shall  be  clearly  heard 
When  thy  frail  lips  to  silent  dust  are  brought. 
God's  guidence  keeps  those  noble    thoughts,    that 

chime 
With  the  great  harmony,  beyond  all  time  ! 


VOICES   OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


181 


IGNORANCE  OF  THE  LEARNED. 

BY  WILLI  I M  IIAZLITT. 

"  For  the  more  languages  a  man  can  speak, 
His  talent  has  but  sprung  the  greater  leak  : 
Ami,  for  the  industry  he  has  spent  upon't, 
Must  full  as  much  some  other  way  discount. 
The  Hebrew,  Chaldee,  and  the  Syriac, 
Do,  like  their  letters,  set  men's  reason  back. 
And  turn  their  wits  that  strive  to  understand  it 
(Like  those  that  write  the  characters)  left  handed. 
Yet  he  that  is  but  able  to  express 
No  sense  at  all  in  several  languages, 
Will  pass  for  learneder  than  he  that's  known 
To  speak  the  strongest  reason  in  his  own." 

The  Author  of  liudihras. 

The  description  of  persons  who  have  the  fewest 
ideas  of  all  others  are  mere  authors  and  readers.  It  is 
better  to  be  able  neither  to  read  nor  write  than  to  be 
able  to  do  nothing  else.  A  lounger  who  is  ordinarily 
seen  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  is  (we  may  be  almost 
sure)  equally  without  the  power  or  inclination  to  at- 
tend either  to  what  passes  around  him,  or  in  his  own 
mind.  Such  a  one  may  be  said  to  carry  his  under- 
standing about  with  him  in  his  pocket,  or  to  leave 
it  at  home  on  his  library  shelves.  He  is  afraid  of 
venturing  on  any  train  of  reasoning,  or  of  striking 
out  any  observation  that  is  not  mechanically  sug- 
gested to  him  by  passing  his  eyes  over  certain  legi- 
ble characters;  shrinks  from  the  fatigue  of  thought, 
which,  for  want  of  practice,  becomes  insupportable 
to  him ;  and  sits  down  contented  with  an  endless 
wearisome  succession  of  words  and  half-formeJ 
images,  which  fill  the  void  of  the  mind,  and  conti- 
nually efface  one  another.  Learning  is,  in  too  many 
cases,  but  a  foil  to  common  sense  ;  a  substitute  for 
true  knowledge.  Books  are  less  often  made  use  of 
as  "spectacles"  to  look  at  nature  with,  than  as 
blinds  to  keep  out  its  strong  light  and  shifting  scene- 
ry from  weak  eyes  and  indolent  dispositions.  The 
book-worra  wraps  himself  up  in  his  web  of  verbal 
generalities,  and  sees  only  the  glimmering  shadows 
of  things  reflected  from  the  minds  of  others.  Nature 
puts  him  out.  The  impressions  of  real  objects, 
stripped  of  the  disguises  of  words  and  voluminous 
round-about  descriptions,  are  blows  that  stagger 
him;  their  variety  distracts,  their  rapidity  exhausts 
him  ;  and  he  turns  from  the  bustle,  the  noise  and 
glare  and  whirling  motion  of  the  world  about  him 
(which  he  has  not  an  eye  to  follow  in  its  fantastic 
changes,  nor  an  understanding  to  reduce  to  fixed 
principles)  to  the  quiet  monotony  of  the  dead  lan- 
guages, and  the  less  startling  and  more  intelligible 
combinations  of  the  letters  of  the  alphabet.  It  is 
well,  it  is  perfectly  well.  "  Leave  me  to  my  re- 
pose" is  the  motto  of  the  sleeping  and  the  dead. 
You  might  as  well  ask  the  paralytic  to  leap  from  his 
chair  and  throw  away  his  crutch,  or,  without  a  mira- 
cle, to  '<  take  up  his  bed  and  walk,"  as  expect  the 


learned  reader  to  lay  down  liis  book  and  think  for 
himself.  He  clings  to  it  for  his  intellectual  support ; 
and  his  dread  of  being  left  to  himself  is  like  the  hor- 
ror of  a  vacuum.  He  can  only  breathe  a  learned 
atmosphere,  as  other  men  breathe  common  air.  He 
is  a  borrower  of  sense.  He  has  no  ideas  of  his  own, 
and  must  live  on  those  of  other  people.  'J  he  habit 
of  supplying  our  ideas  from  foreign  sources  "  enfee- 
bles all  internal  strength  of  thought,''  as  a  course  of 
dram-drinking  destroys  the  tone  of  the  stomach. 
The  faculties  of  the  mind,  when  not  exerted,  or 
when  cramped  by  custom  and  authority,  become 
listless,  torpid,  and  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  thought 
or  action.  Can  we  wonder  at  the  languor  and  lassi- 
tude which  is.  thus  produced  by  a  life  of  learned 
sloth  and  ignorance  ;  by  poring  over  lines  and  syl- 
lables that  e.xcite  little  more  idea  or  interest  than 
if  they  were  the  characters  of  an  unknown  tongue, 
till  the  eye  closes  on  vacancy,  and  the  book 
drops  from  the  feeble  hand !  I  would  rather  be  a 
a  wood-cutter,  or  the  meanest  hind,  that  all  day 
'•  sweats  in  the  eye  of  Phcebus,  and  at  night  sleeps  in 
Elysium,"  than  wear  out  my  life  so,  'twixt  dream- 
ing and  awake.  The  learned  author  differs  from  the 
learned  student  in  this,  that  the  one  transcribes  what 
the  other  reads.  The  learned  are  mere  literary 
drudges.  If  you  set  them  upon  original  composition, 
their  heads  turn,  they  know  not  where  they  are. 
The  indefatigable  readers  of  books  are  like  the  ever- 
lasting copiers  of  pictures,  who,  when  they  attempt 
to  do  any  thing  of  their  own,  find  they  want  an  eye 
quick  enough,  a  hand  steady  enough,  and  colours 
bright  enough,  to  trace  the  living  form-  of  nature. 

Any  one  who  has  passed  through  the  regular  gra- 
dations of  a  classical  education,  and  is  not  made  a 
fool  by  it,  may  consider  himself  as  having  had  a 
very  narrow  escape.  It  is  an  old  remark,  that  boys 
who  shine  at  school  do  not  make  the  greatest  figure 
when  they  grow  up  and  come  out  into  the  world. 
The  things,  in  fact,  which  a  boy  is  set  to  learn  at 
school,  and  on  which  his  success  depends,  are  things 
which  do  not  require  the  exercise  either  of  the  high- 
est or  the  most  useful  faculties  of  the  mind.  Memo- 
ry (and  that  of  the  lowest  kind)  is  the  ehief  facidty 
called  into  play,  in  conning  over  and  repeating  les- 
sons by  rote  in  grammar,  in  languages,  in  geography, 
arithmetic,  &c.,  so  that  he  who  has  the  most  of  this 
technical  memory,  with  the  least  turn  for  other 
things,  which  have  a  stronger  and  more  natural 
claim  upon  his  childish  attention,  will  make  the 
most  forward  school-boy.  The  jargon  containing 
the  definitions  of  the  parts  of  speech,  the  rules  for 
casting  up  an  account,  or  the  inflections  of  a  Greek 
verb,  can  have  no  attraction  to  the  tyro  of  ten  years 
old,  except  as  they  are  imposed  as  a  task  upon  him 
by  others,  or  from  his  feeling  the  want  of  sufficient 
relish  or  amusement  in  other  things.  A  lad  with  a 
sickly  constitution,  and  no  very  active  mind,  who 
can  just  retain  what  is  pointed  out  to  him,  and  has 


182 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


neither  sagacity  to  distinguish  nor  spirit  to  enjoy  for 
himself,  will  generally  be  at  the  head  of  his  form. 
An  idler  at  school,  on  the  other  hand,  is  one  who 
has  high  health  and  spirits,  who  has  the  free  use  of 
his  limbs,  with  all  his  wits  about  him,  who  feels 
the  circulation  of  his  blood  and  the  motion  of  his 
heart,  who  is  ready  to  laugh  and  cry  in  a  breath, 
and  who  had  rather  chase  a  ball  or  a  butterfly,  feel 
the  open  air  in  his  face,  look  at  the  fields  or  the 
sky,  follow  a  winding  path,  or  enter  with  eagerness 
into  all  the  little  conflicts  and  interests  of  his  ac- 
quaintances and  friends,  than  doze  over  a  musty 
spelling-book,  repeat  barbarous  distichs  after  his 
master,  sit  so  many  hours  pinioned  tea  writing-desk, 
and  receive  his  reward  for  the  loss  of  time  and  plea- 
sure in  paltry  prize-medals  at  Christmas  and  Mid- 
summer. There  is  indeed  a  degree  of  stupidity 
which  prevents  children  from  learning  the  usual 
lessonS;  or  ever  arriving  at  these  puny  academic 
honours.  But  what  passes  for  stupidity  is  much 
oftener  a  want  of  interest,  of  a  sufiicient  motive  to 
fix  the  attention,  and  force  a  reluctant  application  to 
the  dry  and  unmeaning  pursuits  of  school-learning. 
The  best  capacities  are  as  much  above  this  drudgery, 
as  the  dullest  are  beneath  it.  Our  men  of  the  great- 
est genius  have  not  been  most  distinguished  for  their 
acquirements  at  school  or  at  the  university. 
"  Th'  iTithusiast  Fancy  was  a  truant  ever." 

Gray  and  Collins  were  among  the  instances  of  this 
wayward  disposition.  Such  per-sonsdo  not  think  so 
highly  of  the  advantages,  nor  can  they  submit  their 
imaginations  so  servilely  to  the  trammels  of  strict 
scholastic  discipline.  There  is  a  certain  kind  and 
degree  of  intellect  in  which  words  take  root,  but  into 
which  things  have  not  power  to  penetrate.  A  me- 
diocrity of  talent,  with  a  certain  slenderness  of 
moral  constitution,  is  the  soil  that  produces  the  most 
brilliant  specimens  of  successful  prize-essayists  and 
Greek  epigrammatists.  It  should  not  be  forgotten, 
that  the  most  equivocal  character  among  modern  poli- 
ticians was  the  cleverest  boy  at  Eton. 

Learning  is  the  knowledge  of  that  which  is  not  gene- 
rally known  to  others,  and  which  we  can  only  derive 
at  second-hand  from  books,  or  other  artificial  sources. 
The  knowledge  of  that  which  is  before  us  or  about 
us,  which  appeals  to  our  experience,  passions  and 
pursuits,  to  the  bosoms  and  businesses  of  men,  is 
not  learning.  Learning  is  the  knowledge  of  that 
which  none  but  the  learned  know.  He  is  the  most 
learned  man  who  knows  the  most  of  what  is  farthest 
removed  from  common  life  and  actual  observation, 
that  is  of  the  least  practical  utility,  and  least  liable 
to  be  brought  to  the  test  of  experience,  and  that, 
having  been  handed  down  through  the  greatest  number 
of  intermediate  stages,  is  the  mo.st  full  of  uncertainty; 
difficulties,  and  contradictions.  It  is  seeing  with  the 
eyes  of  others,  hearing  with  their  ears,  and  pinninfi 
our  faith  on  their  understanding's.  'J"he  learned  man 
pndes  himself  in  the  knowledge  of  names  and  dates, 


not  of  men  or  things.  He  thinks  and  cares  nothing 
about  his  next-door  neighbours,  but  he  is  deeply 
read  in  the  tribes  and  castes  of  the  Hindoos  and  Cal- 
muc  Tartars.  Hecan  hardly  find  his  way  into  the 
next  street,  though  he  is  acquainted  with  the  exact 
dimensions  of  Constantinople  and  Pekin.  He  does 
not  know  whether  his  oldest  acquaintance  is  a  knave 
or  a  fool,  but  he  can  pronounce  a  pompous  lecture 
on  all  the  principal  characters  in  history.  He  can- 
not tell  whether  an  object  is  black  or  white,  round 
or  square,  and  yet  he  is  a  professed  master  of  the 
laws  of  optics  and  the  rules  of  perspective.  He 
knows  as  much  of  what  he  talks  about,  as  a  blind 
man  does  of  colours.  He  cannot  give  a  satisfactory 
answer  to  the  plainest  question,  nor  is  he  ever  in  the 
right  in  any  one  of  his  opinions,  upon  any  one  mat- 
ter of  fact  that  really  comes  before  him,  and  yet  he 
gives  himself  out  for  an  infallible  judge  on  all  those 
points  of  which  it  is  impossible  that  he  or  any  other 
person  living  should  know  anything  but  by  conjec- 
ture. He  is  expert  in  all  the  dead  and  most  of  the 
living  languages  ;  but  he  can  neither  speak  his  own 
fluently,  nor  write  it  correctly.  A  person  of  this 
class,  the  second  Greek  scholar  of  his  day,  undertook 
to  point  out  several  solecisms  in  Milton's  Latin 
style ;  and  in  his  own  performance  there  is  hardly  a 

sentence  of  common  Engligh.     Such  was  Dr. 

Such  is  Dr. .     Such  was  not  Porson.     He  was 

an  exception  that  confirmed  the  general  rule, — a  man 
that,  by  uniting  talents  and  knowledge  with  learn- 
ing, made  the  distinction  between  them  more  strik- 
ing and  palpable. 

A  mere  scholar,  who  knows  nothing  but  books, 
must  be  ignorant  even  of  them.  "  Books  do  not 
teach  the  use  of  books."  How  should  he  know  any- 
thing of  a  work,  who  knows  nothing  of  the  subject 
of  it  ?  The  learned  pedant  is  conversant  with  books 
only  as  they  are  made  of  other  books,  and  those 
again  of  others,  without  end.  He  parrots  those  who 
have  parroted  others.  He  can  translate  the  same  word 
into  ten  diflferent  languages,  but  he  knows  nothing 
of  the  thing  which  it  means  in  any  one  of  them.  He 
stuffs  his  head  with  authorities  built  on  authorities, 
with  quotations  quoted  from  quotations,  while  he 
locks  up  his  senses,  his  understanding,  and  his  heart. 
He  is  unacquainted  with  the  maxims  and  manners 
of  the  world ;  he  is  to  seek  in  the  characters  of  indi- 
viduals. He  sees  no  beauty  in  the  face  of  nature  or 
of  art.  To  him  "  the  mighty  world  of  eye  and  ear" 
is  hid;  and  "knowledge,"  except  at  one  entrance, 
"quite  shut  out."  His  pride  takes  part  with  his 
ignorance  ;  and  his  self-importance  rises  with  the 
number  of  things  of  which  he  does  not  know  the 
value,  and  which  he  therefore  despises  as  unworthy 
of  his  notice.  He  knows  nothing  of  pictures; — "  of 
tlie  colouring  of  Titian,  the  grace  of  Raphael,  the 
purity  of  Domenichino,  the  curregiescily  of  Correg- 
uio,  the  learning  of  Poussin,  the  airs  of  Guido,  the 
taste  of  the  Caracci,  or  the  grand  contour  of  Michael 


VOICES  OF  THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


183 


Angelo,"  of  all  those  glories  of  the  Italian  and  mira- 
cles of  tlie  Flemish  school,  which  have  filled  the  eyes 
of  mankind  with  delight,  and  to  the  study  and  imi- 
tation of  which  thousands  have  in  vain  devoted  their 
lives.  These  are  to  him  as  if  they  had  never  been, 
a  mere  dead  letter,  a  by-word ;  and  no  wonder :  for 
he  neither  sees  nor  understands  their  prototypes  in 
nature.  A  print  of  Ruben's  Wuter'mg-place,  or 
Claude's  Enchanted  Castle,  may  be  hanging  on  the 
walls  of  his  room  for  months  without  his  once  per- 
ceiving them ;  and  if  yon  point  them  out  to  him,  he 
will  turn  away  from  them.  The  language  of  nature 
or  of  art  (which  is  another  nature)  is  one  that  he 
does  not  understand.  He  repeats  indeed  the  names 
of  Apelles  and  Phidias,  because  they  are  to  be  found 
in  classic  authors,  and  boasts  of  their  works  as  pro- 
digies, because  they  no  longer  exist ;  or  when  he 
sees  the  finest  remains  of  Grecian  art  actually  before 
him  in  the  Elgin  marbles,  takes  no  other  interest  in 
them  than  as  they  lead  to  a  learned  dispute,  and 
(which  is  the  same  thing)  a  quarrel  about  the  mean- 
ing of  a  Greek  particle.  He  is  equally  ignorant  of 
music  ;  he  "  knows  no  touch  of  it,"  from  the  strains 
of  the  all-accomplished  Mozart  to  the  shepherd's 
pipe  upon  the  mountain.  His  ears  are  nailed  to  his 
books ;  and  deadened  with  the  sound  of  the  Greek 
and  Latin  tongues,  and  the  din  and  smithery  of  school- 
learning.  Does  he  know  anything  more  of  poetry  ? 
He  knows  the  number  of  feet  in  a  verse,  and  of  acts 
in  a  play  :  but  of  the  soul  or  spirit  he  knows  nothing. 
He  can  turn  a  Greek  ode  into  English,  or  a  Latin 
epigram  into  Greek  verse,  but  whether  either  is 
worth  the  trouble,  he  leaves  to  the  critics.  Does 
he  understand  "  the  act  and  practique  part  of  life" 
better  than  <<  the  theorique?"  No.  He  knows  no 
liberal  or  mechanic  art ;  no  trade  or  occupation  ;  no 
game  of  skill  or  chance.  Learning  "has  no  skill 
in  surgery,"  in  agriculture,  in  building,  in  working 
in  wood  or  in  iron  ;  it  cannot  make  any  instrument 
of  labour,  or  use  it  when  made  ;  it  cannot  handle  the 
plough  or  the  spade,  or  the  chisel  or  the  hammer  ; 
it  knows  nothing  of  hunting  or  hawking,  fishing  or 
shooting,  of  horses  or  dogs,  of  fencing  or  dancing,  or 
cudgel-playing,  or  bowls,  or  cards,  or  tennis,  or 
anything  else.  The  learned  professor  of  all  arts  and 
sciences  cannot  reduce  any  one  of  them  to  practice, 
though  he  may  contribute  an  account  of  them  to  an 
Encyclopaedia,  He  has  not  the  use  of  his  hands  or 
of  his  feet ;  he  can  neither  run,  nor  walk,  nor  swim ; 
and  he  considers  all  those  who  actually  understand 
and  can  exercise  any  of  those  arts  of  body  or  mind, 
as  vulgar  and  mechanical  men ; — though  to  know 
almost  any  one  of  them  in  perfection  requires  long 
time  and  practice,  with  powers  originally  fitted,  and 
a  turn  of  mind  particularly  devoted  to  them.  It  does 
not  require  more  than  this  to  enable  the  learned  can- 
didate to  arrive,  by  painful  study,  at  a  Doctor's  de- 
gree and  a  fellowship,  and  to  eat,  drink,  and  sleep 
the  rest  of  his  life  ! 

The  thing  is  plain.     All  that  men  really  under- 


stand, is  confined  to  a  very  small  compass ;  to  their 
diiily  affairs  and  experience  ;  to  what  they  have  an 
opportunity  to  know,  and  motives  to  study  or  prac- 
tise. The  rest  is  aflectation  and  imposture.  The 
common  people  have  the  use  of  their  limbs ;  for  they 
live  by  their  labour  or  skill.  They  understand 
their  own  business,  and  the  characters  of  those  they 
have  to  deal  with;  for  it  is  necessary  that  they 
should.  They  have  eloquence  to  express  their  pas- 
sions, and  wit  at  will  to  express  their  contempt  and 
provoke  laughter.  Their  natural  use  of  speech  is 
not  hung  up  in  monumental  mockery,  in  an  obsolete 
language ;  nor  is  their  sense  of  what  is  ludicrous,  or 
readiness  at  finding  out  allusions  to  express  it,  buried 
in  collections  of  Anas.  You  will  hear  more  good 
things  on  the  outside  of  a  stage-coach  from  London 
to  Oxford,  than  if  you  were  to  pass  a  twelvemonth 
with  the  Undergraduates  or  Heads  of  Colleges  of  that 
famous  university ;  and  more  lionie  truths  are  to  be 
learnt  from  listening  to  a  noisy  debate  in  an  ale-house, 
than  from  attending  to  a  formal  one  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  An  elderly  country  gentlewoman  will 
often  know  more  of  character,  and  be  able  to  illus- 
trate it  by  more  amusing  anecdotes  taken  from  the 
history  of  what  has  been  said,  done,  and  gossiped  in 
a  country  town  for  the  last  fifty  years,  than  the  best 
blue-stocking  of  the  age  will  be  able  to  glean  from 
that  sort  of  learning  which  consists  in  an  acquaint- 
ance with  all  the  novels  and  satirical  poems  publish- 
ed in  the  same  period.  People  in  towns,  indeed,  are 
woefully  deficient  in  a  knowledge  of  character,  which 
they  see  only  in  the  bust,  not  as  a  whole-length. 
People  in  the  country  not  only  know  all  that  has 
happened  to  a  man,  but  trace  his  virtues  or  vices,  as 
as  they  do  his  features,  in  their  descent  through 
several  generations,  and  solve  some  contradiction  in 
his  behaviour  by  a  cross  in  the  breed,  half  a  century 
ago.  The  learned  know  nothing  of  the  matter, 
either  in  town  or  country.  Above  all,  the  mass  of 
society  have  common  sense,  which  the  learned  in  all 
ages  want.  The  vulgar  are  in  the  right  when  they 
judge  for  themselves ;  they  are  wrong  when  they 
trust  to  their  blind  guides.  The  celebrated  non- 
conformist divine,  Baxter,  was  almost  stoned  to 
death  by  the  good  women  of  Kidderminster,  for 
asserting  from  the  pulpit  that  "  hell  was  paved  with 
infants'  skulls;"  but  by  the  force  of  argument,  and 
of  learned  quotations  from  the  Fathers,  the  reverend 
preacher  at  length  prevailed  over  the  scruples  of  his 
congregation,  and  over  reason  and  humanity. 

Such  is  the  use  which  has  been  made  of  human 
learning.  The  labourers  in  this  vineyard  seem  as  if 
it  was  their  object  to  confound  all  common  sense, 
and  the  distinctions  of  good  and  evil,  by  means  of 
traditional  maxims  and  preconceived  notions,  takien 
upon  trust,  and  increasing  in  absurdity  with  increase 
of  age.  They  pile  hypothesis  on  hypothesis,  moun- 
tain-high, till  it  is  impossible  to  come  at  the  plain 
truth  on  any  question.  They  see  things  not  as  they 
are,  but  as  they  find  them  in  books  ;  and  "  wink  and 


184 


VOICES   OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


shut  their  apprehensions  up,"  in  order  that  they  may 
discover  nothing  to  interfere  with  their  prejudices, 
or  convince  them  of  their  absurdity.  It  might  be 
supposed,  that  the  height  of  human  vi'isdom  consisted 
in  maintaining  contradictions,  and  rendering  non- 
sense sacred.  There  is  no  dogma,  however  fierce  or 
foolish,  to  which  these  persons  have  not  set  their 
seals,  and  tried  to  impose  on  the  under^andings  of 
their  followers,  as  the  will  of  Heaven,  clothed  with 
all  the  terrors  and  sanctions  of  religion.  How  little 
has  the  human  understanding  been  directed  to  find 
out  the  true  and  useful!  How  much  ingenuity  has 
been  thrown  away  in  the  defence  of  creeds  and  sys- 
tems !  How  much  time  and  talents  have  been  wasted 
in  theological  controversy,  in  law,  in  politics,  in 
verbal  criticism,  in  judicial  astrology,  and  in  finding 
out  the  art  of  making  gold !  What  actual  benefit  do  we 
reap  from  the  writings  of  a  Laud  or  aWhitgift,or  of 
Bishop  Bull  or  Bishop  Waterland,  or  Prideaux'  Con- 
nections, or  Beausobre,  or  Calmet,  or  St.  Augustine, 
or  Puffendorf,  or  Vattel,  or  from  the  more  literal  but 
equally  learned  and  unprofitable  labours  of  Scaliger, 
Cardan,  and  Scioppius?  How  many  grains  of  sense 
are  there  in  their  thousand  folio  or  quarto  volumes  ? 
What  would  the  world  lose,  if  they  were  committed  to 
the  flames  to-morrow?  Orare  they  not  already  "gone 
to  the  vault  of  all  the  Capulets'"  Yet  all  these  were 
oracles  in  their  time,  and  would  have  scoffed  at  you 
or  me,  at  common  sense  and  human  nature,  for  dif- 
fering with  them.     It  is  our  tarn  to  laugh  now. 

To  conclude  this  subject.  The  most  sensible  peo- 
ple to  be  met  with  in  society  are  men  of  business 
and  of  the  world,  who  argue  from  what  they  see  and 
know,  instead  of  spinning  .cobweb  distmctions  of 
what  things  ought  to  be.  Women  have  often  more  of 
what  is  called  good  sen^e  than  men.  They  have 
fewer  pretensions  ;  are  less  implicated  in  theories  ; 
and  judge  of  objects  more  from  their  immediate  and 
involuntary  impression  on  the  mind,  and,  therefore, 
more  truly  and  naturally.  They  cannot  reason 
wrong;  for  they  do  not  reason  at  all.  They  do  not 
think  or  speak  by  rule ;  and  they  have  in  general 
more  eloquence  and  wit,  as  well  as  sense,  on  that 
account.  By  their  wit,  sense,  and  eloquence  toge- 
ther, they  generally  contrive  to  govern  their  hus- 
bands. Their  style,  when  they  write  to  their  friends, 
(not  for  the  booksellers,)  is  better  than  that  of  most 
authors.  Uneducated  people  have  most  exuberance 
of  invention,  and  the  greatest  freedom  from  prejudice. 
Shakespear's  was  evidently  an  uneducated  mind, 
both  in  the  freshness  of  his  imagination,  and  in  the 
variety  of  his  views;  as  Milton's  was  scholastic,  in 
the  texture  both  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings.  Shake- 
spear  had  not  been  accustomed  to  write  themes  at 
school  in  favour  of  virtue  or  against  vice.  To  this 
we  owe  the  unaffected,  but  healthy  tone  of  his  dra- 
matic morality.  If  we  wish  to  know  the  force  of 
human  genius,  we  should  read  Shakespear.  If  we 
wish  to  see  the  insignificance  of  human  learning,  we 
may  study  his  commentators.  I 


GO  FORTH  INTO  THE  FIELDS. 

BY  WILLIAM  J.   PAEODIE. 

Go  forth  into  the  fields. 
Ye  dwellers  in  the  city's  troubled  mart ! 
Go  forth  and  know  the  influence  nature  yields, 

To  soothe  the  wearied  heart. 

Leave  ye  the  feverish  strife, 
The  jostling,  eager,  self-devoted  throng; — 
Ten  thousand  voices,  waked  anew  to  life, 

Call  you  with  sweetest  song. 

Hark! — from  each  fresh  clad  bough, 
Or  blissful  soaring  in  the  golden  air, 
Glad  birds,  with  joyous  music,  bid  you  now 

To  Spring's  loved  haunts  repair. 

The  silvery-gleaming  rills 
Lure,  with  soft  murmurs,  from  the  grassy  lea, 
Or,  gaily  dancing  down  the  sunny  hills, 

Call  loudly  in  their  glee  ! 

And  the  young  wanton  breeze, 
With  breath  all  odorous  from  her  blossomy  chase, 
In  voice  low  whispering  'mong  the  embowering  trees, 

Woos  you  to  her  embrace. 

Go — breathe  the  air  of  heaven, 
Where  violets  meekly  smile  upon  your  way  ; 
Or  on  some  pine-crowned  summit,  tempest-riven, 

Your  wandering  footsteps  stay. 

Seek  ye  the  solemn  wood, 
Whose  giant  trunks  a  verdant  roof  uprear, 
And  listen  while  the  roar  of  some  far  flood 

Thrills  the  young  leaves  with  fear  ! 

Stand  by  the  tranquil  lake, 
Sleeping  'mid  rocky  banks  abrupt  and  high, 
Save  when  the  wild-bird's  wing  its  surface  break. 

Chequering  the  mirrored  sky; — 

And  if  within  your  breast 
Hallowed  to  nature's  touch,  one  chord  remain  ; 
If  aught  save  worldly  honors  find  you  blest, 

Or  hope  of  sordid  gain — 

A  strange  delight  shall  thrill, 
A  quiet  joy  brood  o'er  you  like  a  dove  ; 
Earth's  placid  beauty  shall  your  bosom  fill, 

Stirring  its  depths  with  love. 

0,  in  the  calm,  still  hours. 
The  holy  sabbath  hours,  when  sleeps  the  air. 
And  heaven,  and  earth,  decked  with  her  beauteous 
flowers, 

Lie  hushed  in  breathless  prayer; 

Pass  ye  the  proud  fane  by. 
The  vaulted  aisles,  by  flaunting  folly  trod. 
And,  'neath  the  temple  of  the  uplifted  sky, 

Go  forth  and  worship  God  ! 


VOICES   OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


185 


AN  INCIDENT  IN  A  RAILROAD  CAR. 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

He  spoke  of  Burns  :  men  rude  and  rough 
Pressed  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 
Whose  heart  was  made  of  manly  simple  stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And,  when  he  read,  they  forward  leaned. 
Drinking  with  thirsty  hearts  anil  ears. 
His  brook-like  songs  whom  glory  never  weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe. 
Sun-like  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard. 
As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  bard. 

It  was  a  sight  for  sin  and  wrong. 
And  slavish  tyranny  to  see, 
A  sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and  stroa;g 
In  high  humanity. 

I  thought,  these  men  will  carry  hence 
Promptings  their  former  life  above, 
And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 
For  beauty,  truth,  and  love. 

God  scatters  love  on  every  side. 
Freely  among  his  children  all. 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide 
Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  soweth  seeds 
Of  a  more  true  and  open  life, 
Which  burst,  unlooked-for,  into  highsouled  deeds 
With  way-side  beauty  rife. 

We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours 
Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth. 
Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bear  flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 

Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 
These  proinises  of  wider  bliss. 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot  die, 
In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

All  that  hath  been  majestical 
In  life  or  death,  since  time  began, 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all. 
The  angel  heart  of  man. 

[   And  thus,  among  the  untaught  poor. 

Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home, 
That  cast  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 
Of  classic  Greece  or  Rome. 

O,  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 
Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high, 
Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 
O'er-roof  infinity  I 


All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 
Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul, 
And,  from  the  many,  slowly  upward  win 
To  one  who  grasps  the  whole. 

In  his  broad  breast,  the  feeling  deep 
Which  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue. 
Swells  to  a  tide  of  thought  whose  surges  leap 
O'er  the  weak  throne  of  wrong. 

All  thought  begins  in  feeling, — wide 
In  the  great  mass  its  base  is  hid, 
And,  narrowing  up  to  thought,  stands  glorified, 
A  moveless  pyramid. 

Nor  is  he  far  astray  who  deems 
That  every  hope,  which  rises  and  grows  broad 
In  the  world's  heart,  by  ordered  impulse  streams 
From  the  great  heart  of  God. 

God  wills,  man  hopes  :   in  common  saiils 
Hope  is  but  vague  and  undefined, 
Till  from  the  poet's  tongue  the  message  rplls 
A  blessing  to  his  kind. 

Never  did  Poesy  appear 
So  full  of  heaven  to  me  as  when 
I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride  and  fear. 
To  the  lives  of  coarsest  men. 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 
Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 
Once  in  a  century  ; 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak, 
And  friendless  sons  of  men ; 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art. 
Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  untutored  heart. 

He  who  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose, 
May  be  forgotten  in  his  day, 
But  surely  shall  be  crowned  at  last  with  those 
Who  live  and  speak  for  aye. 


The  setting  of  a  great  hope  is  like  the  setting  of 
the  sun.  The  brightness  of  our  life  is  gone.  Shadows 
of  evening  fall  around  us,  and  the  world  seems  but 
a  dim  reflection,— itself  a  broader  shadow.  We 
look  forward  into  the  coming,  lonely  night.  The 
soul  withdraws  into  itself.     The  stars  arise,  and  the 

night  is  holy.  HlTFERION. 

24 


186 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


HISTORICAL  ERAS. 

The  world's  Eras,  for  the  most  part,  have  been 
mighty  efforts  of  courage  or  intellect,  perverted  to  ! 
base  uses.  The  love  of  what  is  noblest  has  not  oiten 
been  honored  by  pillar,  or  temple,  or  poet's  song,  or 
stateman's  advocacy,  or  orator's  eulogium,  or  his- 
torian's record.  Tyrtceus,  because  he  was  full  of 
the  spirit  of  carnage,  has  always  stnig  of  battle-fields ; 
and  as  his  songs  were  to  Spartans,  Spartans  treasur- 
ed them  up  above  any  purer  strains.  Yet  many 
noble  aspirations  doubtless  graced  the  ages  that  have 
fled.  The  heart  of  man,  though  not  perfect,  has  fre- 
quently beat  for  the  true  and  right.  Demosthenes, 
though  a  coward  at  Chceronea,  was  bold  for  Freedom 
in  the  popular  assemblies  ;  Tancred,  though  some- 
times fierce,  was  often  kind  and  pious  ;  and  even 
Xerxes,  nurtured  as  he  was  with  no  feeling  of 
brotherhood  for  his  millions  of  serfs,  wept  with  in- 
voluntary pity  at  what  he  conceived  would  be  their 
miserable  fate.  Then,  too,  Isaiah  and  Jeremiah  and 
David  and  Confucius  and  Socrates,  by  close  union 
with  God,  felt  and  knew  nobleness  so  in  advance  of 
their  age,  that  the  truth  of  it  all  is  not  even  yet 
acknowledged  by  the  mass  of  mankind.  Then,  too, 
thousands  have  gone  down  to  their  graves  unwept 
and  unremembered,  whose  voices  full  of  divine  ac- 
cents, falling  upon  ears  not  ready  to  receive  them, 
died  with  the  passing  breeze. 

The  high  task  of  weaving  the  fragments  of  nobleness 
that  remain  into  a  Philosophico-Religious  history,  and 
deducing  from  them  invaluable  conclusions  with  re- 
gard to  God's  government  and  man's  duty,  is  reserv- 
ed for  some  Freeman  whose  heart  beats  warmly  for 
the  right,  and  whose  intellect  can  recognize  truth  even 
when  covered  by  the  dust  which  Malice  and  Ignorance 
have  so  liberally  flung  upon  it.  We  need  that  the  Soul's 
progress  from  its  lower  to  its  higher  destinies  should 
be  exhibited  in  the  strong  light  of  history.  We  need 
to  be  assured  by  infallible  proofs  that  each  age  has 
made  advances  upon  that  which  preceded  it,  even 
when  at  first  glance  the  reverse  would  appear  ;  and 
that  in  every  age  Love  when  exerted  has  been  more 
potent  than  Hate  and  Violence  to  bring  men  to  its 
measures  ;  and  that  Freedom  has  never  led  to  license, 
but  Tyranny  always;  and  that  Truth  with  her  pure 
confiding  aspect  has  ever  been  more  revered  even  by 
her  enemies,  than  Falsehood  with  her  gorgeous  trap- 
pings and  millions  in  her  train.  We  need  to  have 
our  Infidelity,  in  God's  goodness  and  power,  rebuked 
by  stern  facts  that  shall  shame  us  into  heroism  that 
will  not  doubt  of  victory  in  God's  causes,  but  will 
be  as  fully  assured  of  it  when  arming  for  the  assault 
as  if  the  white  flag  already  streamed  from  the  bat- 
tlements. We  need  that  no  storm  breaking  upon 
our  brows  should  ([ucnch  the  fire  of  hoj)e  that  biirii.s 
in  our  bosoms. 

Within  a  few  years  have  appeared  three  docu- 
ments, which  arc   worthy  of  all  note  as  indicating 


the  upward  spirit  of  the  age.  They  did  not  emanate 
from  those  who  in  wonder  and  awe  were  styled 
prophets,  but  from  those  who  were  of  the  people, 
and  uttered  what  many  felt  and  acknowledged,  and 
so  shall  be  honored  even  when  a  purer  philosophy 
shall  have  pointed  out  to  mankind  some  flaws  in 
their  positions.  Magna  Charta  shall  not  have  a 
name  more  imperishable  than  they.  The  world's 
archives  do  not  contain  nobler  voices  from  masses 
of  men.     They  are  Eras  in  the  march  of  Soul. 

t. 

DECLARATION   OF   INDEPENDENCE. 

IX    COXrillKSS,   JULY    4,    1776. 

By  the  Represent  at  ii-es  of  the  United  States  of  Ame- 
rica, in  C'o7igress  asicmbled. 

When,  in  the  course  of  human  events,  it  becomes 
necessary  for  one  people  to  dissolve  the  political 
bands  which  have  connected  them  with  another,  and 
to  assume  among  the  powers  of  the  earth  the  sepa- 
rate and  equal  station  to  which  the  laws  of  nature 
and  of  nature's  God  entitle  them,  a  decent  respect 
for  the  opinions  of  mankind  requires  that  they 
should  declare  the  causes  which  impel  them  to  the 
separation. 

We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident — that  all 
men  are  created  equal ;  that  they  are  endowed  by 
their  Creator  with  certain  unalienable  rights  ;  that 
among  these  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  hap- 
piness. That,  to  secure  these  rights,  governments 
are  instituted  among  men,  deriving  their  just  powers 
from  the  consent  of  the  governed  ;  that  whenever 
any  form  of  government  becomes  destructive  of  these 
ends,  it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to  alter  or  to 
abolish  it,  and  to  institute  a  new  government,  lay- 
ing its  foundation  on  such  principles,  and  organizing 
its  powers  in  such  form,  as  to  them  shall  seem 
most  likely  to  efi'ect  their  safety  and  happiness. 
Prudence,  indeed,  will  dictate,  that  governments 
long  established  should  not  be  changed  for  light  and 
transient  causes ;  and  accordingly  all  experience 
hath  show^n,  that  mankind  are  more  disposed  to  suf- 
fer, while  evils  are  sufferable,  than  to  right  them- 
selves by  abolishing  the  forms  to  which  they  are 
accustomed.  But  when  a  long  train  of  abuses  and 
usurpations,  pursuing  invariably  the  same  object, 
evinces  a  design  to  reduce  them  under  absolute  des- 
potism, it  is  their  right,  it  is  their  duty  to  throw  off 
such  government,  and  to  provide  new  guards  for 
their  future  security.  Such  has  been  the  patient 
sufferance  of  these  colonies;  and  such  is  now  the 
necessity  which  constrains  them  to  alter  their  form- 
er systems  of  government.  The  history  of  the  pre- 
sent King  of  Great  Britain  is  a  history  of  repeated 
injuries  and  usurpations,  all  having  in  direct  object 
the  establishment  of  an  absolute  tyranny  over  these 
States.  To  prove  this,  let  facts  be  submitted  to  a 
candid  world. 


VOICES  OF  THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


187 


He  has  refused  his  assent  to  laws,  the  most  whole- 
some and  necessary  for  the  public  good. 

He  has  forbidden  his  governors  to  pass  laws  of 
immediate  and  pressing  importance,  unless  suspend- 
ed in  their  operation,  till  his  assent  should  be  ob- 
tained ;  and,  when  so  suspended,  he  has  utterly 
neglected  to  attend  to  them. 

He  has  refused  to  pass  other  laws  for  the  accom- 
modation of  large  districts  of  people,  unless  those 
people  would  relinquish  the  right  of  representation 
in  the  legislature— a  right  inestimable  to  thera,  and 
formidable  to  tyrants  only. 

He  has  called  together  legislative  bodies  at  places 
unusual,  uncomfortable,  and  distant  from  the  repo- 
sitory of  their  public  records,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
fatiguing  them  into  compliance  with  his  measures. 

He  has  dissolved  Representative  Houses  repeated- 
ly, for  opposing,  with  manly  firmness,  his  invasions 
on  the  rights  of  the  people. 

He  has  refused  for  a  long  time  after  such  disso- 
lutions, to  cause  others  to  be  elected;  whereby  the 
legislative  powers,  incapable  of  annihilation,  have 
returned  to  the  people  at  large,  for  their  exercise ; 
the  state  remaining  in  the  mean  time  exposed  to  all 
the  danger  of  invasion  from  without,  and  convulsions 
within. 

He  has  endeavored  to  prevent  the  population  of 
these  states  ;  for  that  purpose  obstructing  the  laws 
for  naturalization  of  foreigners  :  refusing  to  pass 
others  to  encourage  their  migration  hither,  and  rais- 
ing the  conditions  of  new  appropriations  of  lands. 

He  has  obstructed  the  administration  of  justice, 
by  refusing  his  assent  to  laws  for  establishing  judi- 
ciary powers. 

He  has  made  judges  dependent  on  his  will  alone, 
for  the  tenure  of  their  offices,  and  the  amount  and 
payment  of  their  salaries. 

He  has  erected  a  multitude  of  new  offices,  and  sent 
hither  swarms  of  officers,  to  harass  our  people  and 
eat  out  their  substance. 

He  has  kept  among  us.  in  times  of  peace,  standing 
armies,  without  the  consent  of  our  Legislatures. 

He  has  affected  to  render  the  military  independent 
of,  and  superior  to,  the  civil  power. 

He  has  combined  with  others,  to  subject  ns  to  a 
jurisdiction,  foreign  to  our  Constitution,  and  unac- 
knowledged by  our  laws ;  giving  his  assent  to 
their  acts  of  pretended  legislation  : — 

For  quartering  large  bodies  of  armed  troops  among 
us  : — 

For  protecting  them  by  a  mock  trial,  from  punish- 
ment for  any  murder  which  they  should  commit  on 
the  inhabitants  of  these  states  : — 

For  cutting  off  our  trade  with  all  parts  of  the 
world : — 

For  imposing  taxes  on  us  without  our  consent : — 

For  depriving  us,  in  many  cases,  of  the  benefits 
of  trial  by  jury  :  — 

For  transporting  us  beyond  seas,  to  be  tried  for 
pretended  offences  ; — 


For  abolishing  the  free  system  of  English  law  in 
a  neighboring  province,  establishing  therein  an  arbi- 
trary government  and  enlarging  its  boundaries  so  as 
to  render  it  at  once  an  example  and  fit  instrument 
for  introducing  the  same  absolute  rule  into  these 
colonies  : — 

For  taking  away  our  charters,  abolishing  our  most 
valuable  laws,  and  altering  fundamentally  the  forms 
of  our  governments  :  — 

For  suspending  our  own  Legislatures,  and  declar- 
ing themselves  invested  with  power,  to  legislate  for 
us  in  all  cases  whatsoever. 

He  has  abdicated  government  here,  by  declaring 
us  out  of  his  protection,  and  waging  war  against  us. 

He  has  plundered  our  seas,  ravaged  our  coasts, 
burnt  our  towns,  and  destroyed  the  lives  of  our 
people. 

He  is,  at  this  time,  transporting  large  armies  of 
foreign  mercenaries  to  complete  the  work  of  death, 
desolation,  and  tyranny,  already  begun  with  circum- 
stances of  cruelty  and  perfidy,  scarcely  paralleled  in 
the  most  barbarous  ages,  and  totally  unworthy  the 
head  of  a  civilized  nation. 

He  has  constrained  our  fellow  citizens,  taken  cap- 
tive on  the  high  seas,  to  bear  arms  against  their 
country,  to  become  the  executioners  of  their  friends 
and  brethren,  or  to  fall  themselves  by  their  hands. 

He  has  excited  domestic  insurrections  amongst  us, 
and  has  endeavored  to  bring  on  the  inhabitants  of 
our  frontiers,  the  merciless  Indian  savages,  whose 
known  rule  of  warfare  is  an  undistinguished  destruc- 
tion of  all  ages,  sexes,  and  conditions. 

In  every  stage  of  these  oppressions,  we  have  pe- 
titioned for  redress,  in  the  most  humble  terms  :  our 
repeated  petitions  have  been  answered  only  by  re- 
peated injury.  A  prince  whose  character  is  thus 
marked  by  every  act  which  may  define  a  tyrant,  is 
unfit  to  be  the  ruler  of  a  free  people. 

Nor  have  we  been  wanting  in  attention  to  our 
British  brethren.  We  have  warned  them,  from  time 
to  time,  of  attempts  made  by  their  legislature,  to 
extend  an  unwarrantable  jurisdiction  over  us.  We 
have  reminded  them  of  the  circumstances  of  our 
emigration  and  settlement  here.  We  have  appealed 
to  their  native  justice  and  magnanimity,  and  Ave 
have  conjured  them  by  the  ties  of  our  common  kin- 
dred, to  disavow  these  usurpations,  which  would 
inevitably  interrupt  our  connections  and  correspon- 
dence. They,  too,  have  been  deaf  to  the  voice  of 
justice  and  consanguinity.  We  must  therefore  ac- 
quiesce in  the  necessity,  which  denounces  our  sepa- 
ration, and  hold  them,  as  we  hold  the  rest  of  man- 
kind— enemies  in  war — in  peace,  friends. 

We,  therefore,  the  Representatives  of  the  United 
States  of  America,  in  General  Congress  assembled, 
appealing  to  the  Supreme  Judge  of  the  world,  for  the 
rectitude  of  our  intentions,  do,  in  the  name  and  by 
the  authority  of  the  good  people  of  these  colonies, 
solemnly  publish  and  declare,  that  these  United  Co- 
lonies are,  and  of  right  ought  to  be,  free  and  inde- 


188 


VOICES    OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


pendent  states;  that  they  are  absolved  from  all  alle- 
giance to  the  British  crown,  and  that  all  political 
connection  between  them  and  the  state  of  Great 
Britain  is  and  ought  to  be  totally  dissolved  ;  and 
that,  as  free  and  independent  states,  they  have  full 
power  to  levy  war,  conclude  peace,  contract  allian- 
ces, establish  commerce,  and  to  do  all  other  acts 
and  things  which  independent  states  may  of  right  do. 
And  for  the  support  of  this  declaration,  with  a  firm 
reliance  on  the  protection  of  Divine  providence,  we 
mutually  pledge  to  each  other  our  lives,  our  fortunes, 
and  our  sacred  honor. 


II. 

DECLARATION"  OF  SENTIMENTS  OF  THE  AMERICAN 
ANTI-SLAVERY  SOCIETY. 

The  Convention  assembled  in  the  city  of  Phila- 
delphia, to  organize  a  National  Anti-Slavery  Society) 
promptly  seize  the  opportunity  to  promulgate  the 
following  Declaration  of  Sentiments  as  cherished  by 
them  in  relation  to  the  enslavement  of  one-sixth 
portion  of  the  American  people. 

More  than  fifty-seven  years  have  elapsed  since  a 
band  of  patriots  convened  in  this  place,  to  devise 
measures  for  the  deliverance  of  this  country  from  a 
foreign  yoke.  The  corner  stone  upon  which  they 
founded  the  Temple  of  Freedom  was  broadly  this  — 
"that  all  men  are  created  equal;  and  they  are  en- 
dowed by  their  Creator  with  certain  unalienable 
rights  ;  that  among  these  are  life,  lilerlij,  and  the 
pursuit  of  happiness."  At  the  sottnd  of  their  trumpet- 
call  three  millions  of  people  rose  up  as  from  the 
sleep  of  death,  and  rushed  to  the  strife  of  blood ; 
deeming  it  more  glorious  to  die  instantly  as  free- 
men, than  desirable  to  live  one  hour  as  slaves. 
They  were  few  in  number — poor  in  resources  ;  but 
the  honest  conviction  that  Truth,  Justice,  and  Right 
were  on  their  side,  made  them  invincible. 

We  have  met  together  for  the  achievement  of  an 
enterprise,  without  which  that  of  our  fathers  is  in- 
complete ;  and  which,  for  its  magnitude,  solemni- 
ty, and  probable  results  upon  the  destiny  of  the 
world,  as  far  transcends  theirs  as  moral  truth  does 
physical  force. 

In  piuity  of  motive,  in  earnestness  of  zeal,  in  de- 
cision of  purpose,  in  intrepidity  of  action,  in  stead- 
fastness of  faith,  in  sincerity  of  spirit,  we  would  not 
be  inferior  to  them. 

Tlieir  principles  led  them  to  wage  war  against 
their  oppressors,  and  to  spill  human  blood  like 
water,  in  order  to  be  free.  Ours  forbid  the  doing  of 
evil  that  good  may  come,  and  load  us  to  reject,  and 
to  entreat  the  oppressed  to  reject,  the  use  of  all  car- 
nal weapons  for  deliverance  fiom  bondage;  relying 
solely  upon  those  which  are  spiritual,  and  mighty 
througli  God  to  tlie  pulling  down  of  strong  holds. 
I'lii  ir  measures  were  physical  resistance—  tlio  mar- 


shalling in  arms — the  hostile  array — the  mortal  en- 
counter. Uurs  shall  be  such  only  as  the  opposition 
of  moral  purity  to  moral  corruption— the  destruc- 
tion of  error  by  the  potency  of  truth — the  overthrow 
of  prejudice  by  the  power  of  love — and  the  abolition 
of  slavery  by  the  spirit  of  repentance. 

Their  grievances,  great  as  they  were,  were  trifling 
in  comparison  with  the  wrongs  and  sufferings  of  those 
for  whom  we  plead.  Our  fathers  were  never  slaves — 
never  bought  and  sold  like  cattle — never  shut  out 
from  the  light  of  knowledge  and  religion — never  sub- 
jected to  the  lash  of  brutal  task-masters. 

But  those  for  whose  emancipation  we  are  striv- 
ing—constituting at  the  present  time  at  least  one- 
sixth  part  of  our  countrymen, — are  recognized  by 
the  law,  and  treated  by  their  fcllowbeings,  as  market- 
able commodities,  as  goods  and  chattels,  as  brute 
beasts  ;  are  plundered  daily  of  the  fruits  of  their  toil 
without  redress  ;  really  enjoying  no  constitutional 
nor  legal  protection  from  licentious  and  murderous 
outrages  upon  their  persons,  are  ruthlessly  torn 
asunder— the  tender  babe  from  the  arms  of  its  fran- 
tic mother — the  heart-broken  wife  from  her  weep- 
ing husband— at  the  caprice  or  pleasure  of  irrespon- 
sible tyrants.  For  the  crime  of  having  a  dark 
complexion,  they  suffer  the  pangs  of  hunger,  the  in- 
fliction of  stripes,  and  the  ignominy  of  brlital  servi- 
tude. They  are  kept  in  heathenish  darkness  by  laws 
expressly  enacted  to  make  their  instruction  a  crimi- 
nal oflTence. 

The.se  are  the  prominent  circumstances  in  the 
condition  of  more  than  two  millions  of  our  people, 
the  proof  of  which  may  be  found  in  thousands  of 
indisputable  facts,  and  in  the  laws  of  the  slavehold- 
ing  states. 

Hence  we  maintain, — that  in  view  of  the  civil  and 
religious  privileges  of  this  nation,  tire  guilt  of  its  op- 
pression is  unequalled  by  any  other  on  the  face  of 
the  earth ;  and,  therefore. 

That  it  is  bound  to  repent  instantly,  to  undo  the 
heavy  burdens,  to  break  every  yoke,  and  to  let  the 
oppressed  go  free. 

We  further  maintain, — that  no  man  has  a  ri-iht  to 
enslave  or  imbrute  his  brother— to  hold  or  acknow- 
ledge him,  for  one  moment,  as  a  piece  of  merchan- 
dize— to  keep  back  his  hire  by  fraud — or  to  brutalize 
his  mind  by  denying  him  the  means  of  intellectual, 
social  and  moral  improvement. 

The  right  to  enjoy  liberty  is  inalienable.  To  in- 
vade it  is  to  usurp  the  prerogative  of  Jehovah. 
Every  man  has  a  right  to  his  own  body — the  pro- 
ducts  of  his  own  labor— to  the  protection  of  law,  I 
and  to  the  common  advantages  of  society.  It  is  pira-  ■ 
cy  to  buy  or  .steal  a  native  African,  and  subject  him 
to  servitude.     Surely  the  sin  is  as  great  to  enslave  i 

an  American  as  an  African.  I 

Therefore  we  believe  and  aflirm— that  there  is 
no  difforrnce  in  principle,  between  the  African  slave 
trade  and  American  slavery' 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


189 


That  every  American  citizen  who  detains  a  human 
being  in  involuntary  bondage  as  his  property,  is 
according  to  scripture  (Ex.  xxi.  16)  a  man  stealer  : 

That  the  slaves  ought  instantly  to  be  set  free,  and 
brought  under  the  protection  of  law: 

That  if  they  lived  from  the  time  of  Pharaoh  down 
to  the  present  period,  and  had  been  entailed  through 
successive  generations,  their  right  to  be  free  could 
never  have  been  alienated,  but  their  claims  would 
have  constantly  risen  in  solemnity. 

That  all  those  laws  which  are  now  in  force,  ad- 
mitting the  right  of  slavery,  are  therefore  before  God 
utterly  null  and  void  ;  being  an  audacious  usurpation 
of  the  Divine  prerogative,  a  daring  infringement  on 
the  law  of  nature,  a  base  overthrow  of  the  very 
foundations  of  the  social  compact,  a  complete  extinc- 
tion of  all  the  relations,  endearments,  and  obligations 
of  mankind,  and  a  presumptuous  transgression  of  all 
the  holy  commandments— and  that  therefore  they 
ought  instantly  to  be  abrogated. 

We  further  believe  and  affirm — that  all  persons  of 
color  who  possess  the  qualifications  which  are  de- 
manded of  others,  ought  to  be  admitted  forthwith  to 
the  enjoyment  of  the  same  privileges,  and  the  exer- 
cise of  the  same  prerogatives,  as  others  ;  and  that 
the  paths  of  preferment,  of  wealth,  and  of  intelli- 
,  gence,  should  be  opened  as  widely  to  them  as  to  per- 
sons of  a  white  complexion. 

We  maintain  that  no  compensation  should  be  given 
to  the  planters  emancipating  the  slaves  ; 

Because  it  would  be  a  surrender  of  the  great  fun- 
damental principle  that  man  cannot  hold  property  in 
man ; 

Because  slavery  is  a  crime,  and  therefore  is  not 
an  article  to  be  sold  ; 

Because  the  holders  of  slaves  are  not  the  just  pro- 
prietors of  what  they  claim ;  freeing  the  slaves  is 
not  depriving  them  of  property,  but  restoring  it  to 
its  lightful  owners  ;  it  is  not  wronging  the  master, 
but  righting  the  slave — restoring  him  to  himself: 

Because  immediate  and  general  emancipation 
would  only  destroy  nominal,  not  real  property;  it 
would  not  amputate  a  limb  or  break  a  bone  of  the 
slaves,  but  by  infusing  motives  into  their  breasts, 
would  make  them  doubly  valuable  to  the  masters  as 
free  laborers;  and 

Because,  if  compensation  is  to  be  given  at  all,  it 
should  be  given  to  the  outraged  and  guiltless  slaves, 
and  not  to  those  who  have  plundered  and  abused 
them. 

We  regard  as  delusive,  cruel,  and  dangerous,  any 
scheme  of  expatriatioii  which  pretends  to  aid,  either 
directly  or  indirectly  in  the  emancipation  of  the 
slaves,  or  to  be  a  substitute  for  the  immediate  and 
total  abolition  of  slaver}''. 

We  fully  and  unanimously  recognise  the  sovereign- 
ty of  each  state,  to  legislate  exclusively  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  slavery  which  is  tolerated  within  its 
limits  ;  we  concede  that  Congress,  under  the  presevt 


national  compact,  has  no  right  to  interfere  with  any 
of  the  slave  states,  in  relation  to  this  momentous 
subject ; 

But  we  maintain  that  Congress  has  a  right,  and 
is  solemnly  bound,  to  suppress  the  domestic  slave 
trade  between  the  several  states,  and  to  abolish  slave- 
ry in  those  portions  of  our  territory  which  the  Con- 
stitution has  placed  under  its  exclusive  jurisdiction. 

We  also  maintain  that  there  are,  at  the  present 
time,  the  highest  obligations  resting  upon  the  people 
of  the  free  states,  to  remove  slavery  by  moral  and 
political  action,  as  prescribed  in  the  Constitution  of 
the  United  States.  They  are  now  living  under  a 
pledge  of  their  tremendous  physical  force,  to  fasten 
the  galling  fetters  of  tyranny  upon  the  limbs  of  mil- 
lions in  the  southern  states ;  they  are  liable  to  be 
called  at  any  moment  to  suppress  a  general  in- 
surrection of  the  slaves  ;  they  authorize  the  slave 
owner  to  vote  on  three  fifths  of  his  slaves  as  proper- 
ty, and  thus  enable  him  to  perpetuate  his  oppres- 
sion ;  they  support  a  standing  army  at  the  south  for 
its  protection;  and  they  seize  the  slave  who  has  es- 
caped into  their  territories,  and  send  him  back  to 
be  tortured  by  an  enraged  master  or  a  brutal  driver. 
This  relation  to  slavery  is  criminal  and  full  of  dan- 
ger :  it  must  be  broken  up. 

These  are  our  views  and  principles — these  our 
designs  and  measures.  With  entire  confidence  in 
the  overruling  justice  of  God,  we  plant  ourselves 
upon  the  Declaration  of  our  Independence  and  the 
truths  of  Divine  Revelation  as  upon  the  Everlasting 
Rock. 

We  shall  organize  Anti-Slavery  Societies,  if  pos- 
sible, in  every  city,  town  and  village  in  our  land. 

We  shall  send  forth  agents  to  lift  up  the  voice  of 
remonstrance,  of  warning,  of  entreaty,  and  rebuke. 

We  shall  circulate,  unsparingly  and  extensively, 
anti-slavery  tracts  and  periodicals. 

We  shall  enlist  the  pulpit  and  the  press  in  the 
cause  of  the  suffering  and  the  dumb. 

We  shall  aim  at  a  purification  of  the  churches 
from  all  participation  in  the  guilt  of  slavery. 

We  shall  encourage  the  labor  of  freemen  rather 
than  that  of  slaves  by  giving  a  preference  to  their 
productions  :   and 

We  shall  spare  no  exertions  nor  means  to  bring 
the  whole  nation  to  speedy  repentance. 

Our  trust  for  victory  is  solely  in  God.  "We  may 
be  personally  defeated,  but  our  principles  never. 
Truth,  Justice,  Reason,  Humanity,  must  and  will 
gloriously  triumph.  Already  a  host  is  coming  up  to 
the  help  of  the  Lord  against  the  mighty,  and  the 
prospect  before  us  is  full  of  encouragement. 

Submitting  this  declaration  to  the  candid  exami- 
nation of  the  people  of  this  country,  and  of  the 
friends  of  liberty  throughout  the  world,  we  hereby 
affix  our  signatures  to  it ;  pledging  ourselves  that, 
under  the  guidance  and  by  the  help  of  Almighty 
God  we  will  do  all  that  in  us  lies,  consistently  with 


190 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


this  Declaration  of  our  principles,  to  overthrow  the 

most  execrable  system  of  slavery  that  has  ever  been 
■witnessed  upon  earth — to  deliver  our  land  from  its 
deadliest  curse — to  wipe  out  the  foulest  stain  which 
rests  upon  our  national  escutcheon— and  to  secure 
to  the  colored  population  of  the  United  States  all 
the  rights  and  privileges  which  belong  to  them  as 
men,  and  as  Americans — come  what  may  to  our 
persons,  our  interests,  or  our  reputation — whether 
we  live  to  witness  the  triumph  of  liberty,  justice 
and  humanity,  or  perish  untimely  as  martyrs  in  this 
great,  benevolent,  and  holy  cause. 

Uunc  at  Philailelpliia,  tlie  sixtli  day  of  December,  A.I>   l!i33. 

III. 

DECLAR.\TION   OF   SENTIMENTS 

Adupttd  by  the  Peace   Convention,  held  in  Boston, 

September  18,  19,  and  20,  1838. 

Assembled  in  Convention,  from  various  sections 
of  the  American  Union,  for  the  promotion  of  peace 
on  earth,  and  good  will  among  men,  we,  the  under- 
signed, regard  it  as  due  to  ourselves,  to  the  cause 
which  we  love,  to  the  country  in  which  we  live,  and 
to  the  world,  to  publish  a  Declaration,  expressive 
of  the  principles  we  cherish,  the  purposes  we  aim 
to  accomplish,  and  the  measures  we  shall  adopt  to 
carry  forward  the  work  of  peaceful  universal  re- 
formation. 

We  cannot  acknowledge  allegiance  to  any  human 
government ;  neither  can  we  oppose  any  such  go- 
vernment, by  a  resort  to  physical  force.  We  recog- 
nize but  one  King  and  Lawgiver,  one  Judge  and 
Ruler  of  mankind.  We  are  bound  by  the  laws  of  a 
kingdom  which  is  not  of  this  world;  the  subjects 
of  which  are  forbidden  to  fight ;  in  which  Mercy  and 
Truth  are  met  together,  and  Righteousness  and 
Peace  have  kissed  each  other ;  which  has  no  state 
lines,  no  national  partitions,  no  geographical  boun- 
daries ;  in  which  there  is  no  distinction  of  rank,  or 
division  of  caste,  or  inequality  of  sex  ;  the  officers 
of  which  are  Peace,  its  exactors  Righteousness,  its 
walls  Salvation,  and  its  gates  Praise  ;  and  which  is 
destined  to  break  in  pieces  and  consume  all  other 
kingdoms. 

Our  country  is  the  world,  our  countrymen  are  all 
mankind.  We  love  the  land  of  our  nativity,  only  as 
we  love  all  other  lands.  The  interests,  rights, 
and  liberties  of  American  citizens  are  no  more  dear 
to  us,  than  are  those  of  the  whole  human  race. 
Hence,  we  can  allow  no  appeal  to  patriotism,  to  re- 
venge any  national  insult  or  injury.  The  Prince  of 
Peace,  under  whose  stainless  banner  we  rally,  came 
not  to  destroy,  but  to  save,  even  the  worst  of  ene- 
mies. He  has  left  us  an  example,  that  we  should 
follow  his  steps.  Godcuinnicndclk  his  /ore  Inward  us, 
in  t/iaf  luliile  we  were  yet  sinners,  Christ  died  for  us. 

We  conceive  that  if  a  nation  has  no  right  to  de- 
fend itself  against  foreign  enemies,  or  to  piniish  its 


invaders,  no  individual  possesses  that  right  in  his 
own  case.  The  unit  cannot  be  of  greater  importance 
than  the  aggregate.  If  one  man  may  take  life,  to 
obtain  or  defend  his  rights,  the  same  license  must 
necessarily  be  granted  to  communities,  states,  and 
nations.  If  he  may  use  a  dagger  or  a  pistol,  thiy 
may  employ  cannon,  bomb-shells,  land  and  naval 
forces.  The  means  of  self  preservation  must  be  in 
proportion  to  the  magnitude  of  interests  at  stake, 
and  the  number  of  lives  exposed  to  destruction.  But 
if  a  rapacious  and  blood-thirsty  soldiery,  thronging 
these  shores  from  abroad,  with  intent  to  commit 
rapine  and  destroy  life,  may  not  be  resisted  by  the 
people  or  magistracy,  then  ought  no  resistance  to  be 
offered  to  domestic  troublers  of  the  public  peace,  or 
of  private  security.  No  obligation  can  rest  upon 
Americans  to  regard  foreigners  as  more  sacred  in 
their  persons  than  themselves,  or  to  give  them  a 
monopoly  of  wrong-doing  with  impunity. 

The  dogma,  that  all  the  governments  of  tlie  world 
are  approvingly  ordained  of  God,  and  that  the  pow- 
ers that  be  in  the  United  States,  in  Russia,  in  Tur- 
key, are  in  accordance  with  His  will,  is  not  less 
absurd  than  impious.  It  makes  the  impartial  Author 
of  human  freedom  and  ecjuality,  unequal  and  tyran- 
nical. It  cannot  be  affirmed,  that  the  powers  that 
be,  in  any  nation,  are  actuated  by  the  spirit,  or 
guided  by  the  example  of  Christ,  in  the  treatment  of 
enemies  :  therefore,  they  cannot  be  agreeable  to  the 
will  of  God:  and,  therefore,  their  overthrow,  by  a 
spiritual  regeneration  of  their  subjects,  is  inevitable. 

We  register  our  testimony,   not  only  against  all 
wars,  whether  offensive  or  defensive,  but  all  prepa- 
rations for  war ;   against  every  naval   ship,   every 
arsenal,  every  fortification;  against  the  militia  sys-         i 
tem  and  a  standing  army ;  against  all  military  chief-        I 
tains  and  soldiers  ;  against  all   monuments  comme- 
morative of  victory  over  a  foreign  foe,  all  trophies 
won  in  battle,   all  celebrations  in  honor  of  military         J 
or  naval  exploits;   against  all  appropriations  for  the         1 
defence  of  a  nation  by  force  and  arms,  on  the  part  of 
any  legislative  body  ;  against  every  edict  of  govern- 
ment,   requiring   of  its    subjects  military  service. 
Hence,  we  4?'em  it  unlawful  to  bear  arms,  or  to  hold 
a  military  office. 

As  every  human  government  is  upheld  by  jihysi. 
cal  strength,  and  its  laws  are  enforced  virtually  at 
the  point  of  the  bayonet,  we  cannot  hold  any  office 
which  imposes  upon  its  incumbent  the  obligation  to 
do  right,  on  pain  of  imprisonment  or  death.  We 
therefore  voluntarily  exclude  ourselves  from  every 
legislative  and  judicial  body,  and  repudiate  all  hu- 
man politics,  worldly  honois,  <in<J  stations  of  autho- 
rity. If  we  cannot  occupy  a  seat  in  the  legislature,  J 
or  on  the  bench,  neither  can  we  elect  others  to   act  1 

as  our  substitutes  in  any  such  capacity. 

It  follows  that  we  cannot  sue  any  man  at  law,  to 
compel  him  by  force  to  restore  any  thing  which  he         | 
may  have  wrongfullly  taken  from  us  or  oliicrs;  but,  1 


VOICES   OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


191 


if  he  has  seized  our  coat,  we  shall  sunemlcr  up  our 
cloak,  rather  than  subject  him  to  punishment. 

We  helieve  that  the  penal  code  of  the  old  covenant, 
An  e3^e  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  has  been 
abrogated  by  Jesus  Christ ;  and  that,  under  the  new 
covenant,  the  forgiveness,  instead  of  the  punishment 
of  enemies,  has  been  enjoined  upon  all  disciples,  in 
all  cases  vv'hatsoever.  To  extort  money  from  ene- 
mies, or  set  them  upon  a  pillory,  or  cast  them  into 
prison,  or  hang  them  upon  a  gallows,  is  obviously 
not  to  forgive,  but  to  take  retribution.  Vengeance 
is  mine — I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord. 

The  history  of  mankind  is  crowded  with  evidences, 
proving  that  physical  coercion  is  not  adapted  to 
moral  regeneration  ;  that  the  sinful  dispositions  of 
man  can  be  subdued  only  by  love  ;  that  evil  can  be 
exterminated  from  the  earth  only  by  goodness  ;  that 
it  is  not  safe  to  rely  upon  an  arm  of  flesh,  upon  man 
whose  breath  is  in  his  nostrils,  to  preserve  us  from 
harm ;  that  there  is  groat  security  in  being  gentle, 
harmless,  long-suffering,  and  abundant  in  mercy ; 
that  it  is  only  the  meek  who  shall  inherit  the  earth, 
for  the  violent,  who  resort  to  the  sword,  shall  perish 
with  the  sword.  Hence,  as  a  measure  of  sound 
policy, — of  safety  to  property,  of  life,  and  liber- 
ty,— of  public  quietude  and  private  enjoyment, — as 
well  as  on  the  ground  of  allegiance  to  Him  who  is 
King  of  kings,  and  Lord  of  lords, — we  cordially 
adopt  the  non-resistance  principle  ;  being  confident 
that  it  provides  for  all  possible  consequences,  will 
ensure  all  things  needful  to  us,  is  armed  with  om- 
nipotent power,  and  must  ultimately  triumph  over 
every  assailing  force. 

We  advocate  no  Jacobinical  doctrines.  The  spirit 
of  jacobinism  is  the  spirit  of  retaliation,  violence 
and  murder.  It  neither  fears  God,  nor  regards  man. 
We  would  be  filled  with  the  spirit  of  Christ.  If  we 
abide  by  our  principles,  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  be 
disorderly,  or  plot  treason,  or  participate  in  any  evil 
work  : — we  shall  submit  to  every  ordinance  of  man, 
for  the  Lord's  sake  ;  obey  all  the  requirements  of 
government,  except  such  as  we  deem  contrary  to 
the  commands  of  the  gospel ;  and  in  no  wise  resist 
the  operation  of  law,  except  by  meekly  submitting 
to  the  penalty  of  disobedience. 

But,  while  we  shall  adhere  to  the  doctrine  of  non- 
resistance  and  passive  submission  to  enemies,  we 
purpose,  in  a  moral  and  spiritual  sense,  to  speak  and 
act  boldly  in  the  cause  of  God  ;  to  assail  inquity  in 
high  places  and  in  low  places ;  to  apply  our  princi- 
ples to  all  existing,  civil,  political,  legal,  and  eccle- 
siastical institutions  ;  and  to  hasten  the  time,  when 
the  kingdoms  of  this  world  will  become  the  kingdoms 
of  our  Lord  and  of  his  Christ,  and  he  shall  reign 
forever. 

It  appears  to  us  a  self-evident  truth,  that,  what- 
ever the  gospel  is  designed  to  destroy  at  any  period 
of  the  world,  being  contrary  to  it,  ought  now  to  be 
abandoned.     If,  then,   the  time   is  predicted,   when 


swords  shiill  be  beaten  into  plough  shares,  and 
spears  into  pruning-liooks,  and  men  shall  not  learn 
the  art  of  war  any  more,  it  follows  that  all  who 
manufacture,  sell,  or  wield  those  deadly  weapons, 
do  thus  array  themselves  against  the  peaceful  domi- 
nion of  the  Son  of  God  on  earth. 

Having  thus  briefly,  but  frankly,  stated  our  prin- 
ciples and  purposes,  we  proceed  to  specify  the  mea- 
sures we  propose  to  adopt,  in  carrying  our  object 
into  effect. 

We  expect  to  prevail  through  the  foolishness  of 
preaching — striving  to  commend  ourselves  unto  eve- 
ry man's  conscience,  in  the  sight  of  God.  From  the 
press  we  shall  promulgate  our  sentiments  as  widely 
as  practicable.  We  shall  endeavor  to  secure  the 
cooperation  of  all  persons,  of  whatever  name  or 
sect.  The  triumphant  progress  of  the  cause  of 
Temperance  and  of  Abolition  in  our  land,  through 
the  instrumentality  of  benevolent  and  voluntary 
associations,  encourages  us  to  combine  our  own 
means  and  efforts  for  the  promotion  of  a  still  greater 
cause.  Hence  we  shall  employ  lecturers,  circulate 
tracts  and  publications,  form  societies,  and  petition 
our  state  and  national  governments  in  relation  to 
the  subject  of  L^niversal  Peace.  It  will  be  our  lead- 
ing object  to  devise  ways  and  means  for  effecting  a 
radical  change  in  the  views,  feelings  and  practices 
of  society,  respecting  the  sinfulness  of  war,  and  the 
treatment  of  enemies. 

In  entering  upon  the  great  work  before  us,  we  are 
not  unmindful  that,  in  its  prosecution,  we  may  be 
called  to  test  our  sincerity,  even  as  in  a  fiery  ordeal. 
It  may  subject  us  to  insult,  outrage,  suffering,  yea, 
even  death  itself.  We  anticipate  no  small  amount 
of  misconception,  misrepresentation,  calumny.  Tu- 
mults may  arise  against  us.  The  ungodly  and  vio- 
lent, the  proud  and  pharisaical,  the  ambitious  and 
tyrannical,  principalities  and  powers,  and  spiritual 
wickedness  in  high  places,  may  combine  to  crush 
us.  So  they  treated  the  Messiah,  whose  example 
we  are  humbly  striving  to  imitate.  If  we  suffer  with 
him,  we  know  that  we  shall  reign  with  him.  We 
shall  not  be  afraid  of  their  terror,  neither  be  trou- 
bled. Our  confidence  is  in  the  Lord  Almighty,  not 
in  man.  Having  withdrawn  from  human  protection, 
what  can  sustain  us  but  that  faith  which  overcomes 
the  world  ?  We  shall  not  think  it  strange  concern- 
ing the  fiery  trial  which  is  to  try  us,  as  though  some 
strange  thing  had  happened  unto  us ;  but  rejoice,  in- 
asmuch as  we  are  partakers  of  Christ's  sufferings. 
Wherefore,  we  commit  the  keeping  of  our  souls  to 
God,  in  well-doing,  as  unto  a  faithful  Creator.  For 
every  one  that  forsakes  houses,  or  brethren,  or  sisters, 
or  father,  or  mother,  or  wife,  or  children,  or  lands,  for 
Christ's  sake,  shall  receive  an  hundredfold,  andshall 
inherit  everlasting  life. 

Firmly  relying  upon  the  certain  and  universal  tri- 
umph of  the  sentiments  contained  in  this  Declara- 
tion, however  formidable  may  be  the  opposition  ar- 


192 


VOICES   OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


rayed  against  them, — in  solemn  testimony  of  our 
faith  in  their  divine  origin, — we  hereby  affix  our 
signatures  to  it ;  commending  it  to  the  reason  and 
conscience  of  mankind,  giving  ourselves  no  anxiety 
as  to  what  may  befal  us,  and  resolving  in  the  strength 
of  the  Lord  God  calmly  and  meekly  to  abide  the 


ON  ANOTHER'S  SORROW. 

BY  WILLIAM   BLAKE. 

Can  I  see  another's  wo. 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief. 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear. 
And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share  ? 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  filled  ? 

Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear 
An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear  ? 
No  !  no  !  never  can  it  be  ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be  ! 

And  can  He  who  smiles  on  all, 
Hear  the  wren  with  sorrows  small 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear, — 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest. 
Pouring  pity  in  their  breast  ? 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near, 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear? 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away  ? 
Oh !  no  !  never  can  it  be  ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be  ! 

He  doth  give  His  Joy  to  all  : 
He  becomes  an  Infant  small  : 
He  becomes  a  Man  of  wo  : 
He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh. 
And  thy  IMaker  is  not  nigh  : 
Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear. 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

Oh  !  He  givcth  us  His  Joy, 
That  our  griefs  He  may  destroy  : 
Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone. 
He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 


ABSENCE. 

BY  FRANCES  A.  BUTLER. 

■WTiat  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy  face? 

How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that  lowers 

Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time  of  grace? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense, 
Weary  with  longing  ? — shall  I  flee  away 

Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day  ? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift  of  time  ; 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  locked  within, 
Leave,  and  forget,  life's  purposes  sublime  ? 

Oh  !  how,  or  by  what  means,  may  I  contrive 

To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back  more  near  ? 

How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here  ? 

I'll  tell  thee  :  for  thy  sake,  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee, 

In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that  is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one  !  art  far  from  me. 

For  thee,  I  will  arouse  my  thoughts  to  try 

All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and  holy  strains; 

For  thy  dear  sake,  I  will  walk  patiently 

Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their  minutes 
pains. 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task-time,  and  will  therein  strive 

To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 

More  good  than  I  have  won  since  yet  I  live. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in  me 

A  thousand  graces  which  shall  thus  be  thine  ; 

So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  divine. 


TO  AN  INFANT. 

BY  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON. 

Fair  bud  of  being !  blossoming  like  the  rose — 
Leaf  upon  leaf  unfolding  to  the  eye. 
In  fragrance  rich  and  spotless  purity — 

That  hourly  dost  some  latent  charm  disclose  ; — 

0  may  the  dews  and  gentle  rains  of  Heaven 
Give  to  thy  root  immortal  sustenance; 
So  thou  in  matchless  beauty  shalt  advance, 

Nor  by  the  storms  of  life  be  rudely  driven. 

But  if,  0  envious  Death  !  this  little  flower 
Thou  from  its  tender  stem  untimely  break. 
An  Angel  shall  the  drooping  victim  take. 

And  quick  transplant  it  to  a  heavenly  bower, 
Where  it  shall  flourish  in  eternal  Spring, 
Nurtured  beneath  the  eye  of  a  paternal  King. 


VOICES  or  THE  TRUE  HEARTED. 


TO  M.  W. 

BV  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

L'' Envoi,  to  a  Volume  of  roans. 
Whether  my  heart  hath  wiser  grown  or  not, 
In  these  three  years,  since  I  to  thee  inscribed, 
Mine  own  betrothed,  the  firstlings  of  my  muse,— 
Poor  windfalls  of  unripe  experience, 
Young  buds  plucked  hastily  by  childish  hands 
Not  patient  to  await  more  full-blown  flowers, — 
At  least  it  hath  seen  more  of  life  and  men, 
And  pondered  more,  and  grown  a  shade  more  sad  ; 
Yet  with  no  less  of  hope  or  settled  trust 
In  the  benignness  of  that  Providence, 
Which  shapes  from  out  our  elements  awry 
The  grace  and  order  that  we  wonder  at, 
The  mystic  harmony  of  right  and  wrong. 
Both  working  out  His  wisdom  and  our  good  : 
A  trust.  Beloved,  chiefly  learned  of  thee, 
Who  hast  that  gift  of  patient  tenderness, 
The  instinctive  wisdom  of  a  woman's  heart, 
Which,  seeing  Right,  can  yet  forget  the  Wrong, 
And,  strong  itself  to  comfort  and  sustain. 
Yet  leans  with  full-confiding  piety 
On  the  great  Spirit  that  enriches  all. 

Less  of  that  feeling,  which  the  world  calls  love, 
Thou  findest  in  my  verse,  but  haply  more 
Of  a  more  precious  virtue,  born  of  that, 
The  love  of  God,  of  Freedom,  and  of  Man. 
Thou  knowest  well  what  these  three  years  have  been, 
How  we  have  filled  and  graced  each  other's  hearts, 
And  every  day  grown  fuller  of  that  bliss. 
Which,  even  at  first,  seemed  more  than  we  could  bear, 
And  thou,  meantime,  unchanged,  except  it  be 
That  thy  large  heart  is  larger,  and  thine  eyes 
Of  palest  blue,  more  tender  with  the  lore 
Which  taught  me  first  how  good  it  was  to  love ; 
And,  if  thy  blessed  name  occur  less  oft, 
Yet  thou  canst  see  the  shadow  of  thy  soul 
In  all  my  song,  and  art  well-pleased  to  feel 
That  I  could  ne'er  be  rightly  true  to  thee. 
If  I  were  recreant  to  higher  aims. 
Thou  didst  not  grant  to  me  so  rich  a  fief 
As  thy  full  love,  on  any  harder  tenure 
Than  that  of  rendering  thee  a  single  heart ; 
And  I  do  service  for  thy  queenly  gift 
Then  best,  when  I  obey  my  soul,  atid  tread 
In  reverence  the  path  she  beckons  me. 

'T  were  joy  enough, — if  I  could  think  that  life 
Were  but  a  barren  struggle  after  joy, — 


To  live,  and  love,  and  never  look  beyond 
The  fair  horizon  of  thy  bounteous  heart, 
WJiose  sunny  circle  stretches  wide  enough 
For  me  to  find  a  heaped  contentment  in  ; 
To  do  naught  else  but  garner  every  hour 
My  golden  harvest  of  sweet  memories. 
And  count  my  boundless  revenue  of  smiles 
And  happy  looks,  and  words  so  kind  and  gentle 
That  each  doth  seem  the  first  to  give  thy  heart, — 
Content  to  let  my  waveless  soul  flow  on, 
Reflecting  but  the  spring-time  on  its  brink, 
And  thy  clear  spirit  bending  like  a  sky 
O'er  it, — secure  that  from  thy  virgin  hands 
My  brows  shall  never  lack  their  dearest  wreath : 
But  life  hath  nobler  destinies  than  this, 
Which  but  to  strive  for  is  reward  enough, 
Which  to  attain  is  all  earth  gives  of  peace. 
Thou  art  not  of  those  niggard  souls,  who  deem 
That  Poesy  is  but  to  jingle  words. 
To  string  sweet  sorrows  for  apologies 
To  hide  the  barrenness  of  unfurnished  hearts, 
To  prate  about  the  surfaces  of  things, 
And  make  more  threadbare  what  was  quite  worn  out 
Our  common  thoughts  are  deepest,  and  to  give 
Such  beauteous  tones  to  these,  as  needs  must  take 
Men's  hearts  their  captives  to  the  end  of  time, 
So  that  who  hath  not  the  choice  gift  of  words 
Takes  these  into  his  soul,  as  welcome  friends, 
To  make  sweet  music  of  his  joys  and  woes, 
And  be  all  Beauty's  swift  interpreters, 
Links  of  bright  gold  'twixt  nature  and  his  heart, 
This  is  the  errand  high  of  Poesy. 
The  day  has  long  gone  by  wherein  't  was  thought 
That  men  were  greater  poets,  inasmuch 
As  they  were  more  unlike  their  fellow-men  : 
The  poet  sees  beyond,  but  dwells  among, 
'I'he  wearing  turmoil  of  our  work-day  life  ; 
His  heart  not  differs  from  another  heart, 
But  rather  in  itself  enfolds  the  whole 
Felt  by  the  hearts  about  him,  high  or  low. 
Hath  deeper  sympathies  and  clearer  sight, 
And  is  more  like  a  human  heart  than  all ; 
His  larger  portion  is  but  harmony 
Of  heart,  the  all-potent  alchemy  that  turns 
The  humblest  things  to  golden  inspiration ; 
A  loving  eye's  unmatched  sovereignty; 
A  self-sustained,  enduring  humbleness  ; 
A  reverence  for  woman  ;  a  deep  faith 
In  gentleness,  as  strength's  least  doubtful  proof; 
And  an  electric  sympathy  with  love. 
Heaven's  first  great  message  to  all  noble  souls. 
25 


194 


VOICES    OF    THE    T  K  U  E - H  E  A  U  T  E  D . 


But,  if  the  poet's  duty  be  to  tell 
His  fellow-men  their  beauty  and  their  strength, 
And  show  them  the  deep  meaning  of  their  souls, 
He  also  is  ordained  to  higher  things  ; 
He  mast  reflect  his  race's  struggling  heart, 
And  shape  the  crude  conceptions  of  his  age. 
They  tell  us  that  our  lanl  was  made  for  song. 
With  its  huge  rivers  and  sky-piercing  peaiis, 
Its  sea-like  lakes  and  mighty  cataracts, 
Its  forests  vast  and  hoar,  and  prairies  wide, 
And  mounds  that  tell  of  wondrous  tribes  extinct; 
But  Poesy  springs  not  from  rocks  and  woods ; 
Her  womb  and  cradle  are  the  human  heart. 
And  she  can  find  a  nobler  tlieitie  for  song 
In  the  most  loathsonpe  mart  that  blasts  the  sight. 
Than  in  the  broad  expanse  of  sea  and  shore 
Between  the  frozen  deserts  of  the  poles. 
All  nations  have  their  message  from  on  high. 
Each  the  messiah  of  some  central  thought. 
For  the  fulfilment  and  delight  of  Man  : 
One  has  to  teach  that  Labor  is  divine ; 
Another,  Freedom;  and  another,  JMind; 
And  all,  that  God  is  open-eyed  and  just, 
The  happy  centre  and  calm  heart  of  all. 

Are,  then,   our  woods,   our  mountains,   and  our 
streams. 
Needful  to  teach  our  poets  how  to  sing? 
O,  maiden  rare,  far  other  thoughts  were  ours. 
When  we  have  sat  by  ocean's  foaming  marge, 
And  watched  the  waves  leap  roaring  on  the  rocks, 
Than  young  Leander  and  his  Hero  had, 
Gazing  from  Sestos  to  the  other  shore. 
The  moon  looks  down  and  ocean  worships  her, 
Stars  rise  and  set,  and  seasons  come  and  go 
Even  as  they  did  in  Homer's  elder  time. 
But  we  behold  them  not  with  Grecian  eyes : 
Then  they  were  types  of  beauty  and  of  strength, 
But  now  of  freedom,  unconfined  and  pure. 
Subject  alone  to  Order's  higher  law. 
What  cares  the  Russian  serf  or  Southern  slave, 
Though  we  should  speak  as  man  spake  never  yet 
Of  gleaming  Hudson's  broad  magnificence, 
Or  green  Niagara's  never-ending  roar  ? 
Our  country  hatha  gospel  of  her  own 
To  preach  and  practice  before  all  the  world, — 
The  freedom  and  divinity  of  man. 
The  glorious  claims  of  human  brotherhood, — 
Which  to  pay  nobly,  as  a  freeman  should. 
Gains  the  sole  wealth  that  will  not  fly  away, — 
And  the  soul's  fealty  to  none  but  God. 
These  are  realities,  which  make  the  shows 
Of  outward  Nature,  be  they  ne'er  so  grand, 
Seem  small,  and  worthless,  and  contemptible  : 
These  are  the  mountain-summits  for  our  bards, 
Which  stretch  far  upwani  into  heaven  itself,^ 
And  give  such  wide-spread  and  exulting  view 
Of  hope,  and  faith,  and  onward  destiny, 
That  shrunk  Parnassus  to  a  molehill  dwindles. 


Our  new  Atlantis,  like  a  morning-star. 

Silvers  the  murk  face  of  slow-yielding  Night, 

The  herald  of  a  fuller  truth  than  yet 

Hath  gleamed  upon  the  upraised  /ace  of  Man 

Since  the  earth  glittered  in  her  stainless  prime, — 

Of  a  more  glorious  sunrise  than  of  old 

Drew  wondrous  melodies  from  Memnon  huge. 

Yea,  draws  them  still,  though  now  he  sits  waist-deep 

In  the  engulfing  flood  of  whirling  sand. 

And  looks  across  the  wastes  of  endless  gray, 

Sole  wreck,  where  once  his  hundred-gated  Thebes 

Pained  with  her  mighty  hum  the  calm,  blue  heaven  : 

Shall  the  dull  stone  pay  grateful  orisons, 

.\nd  we  till  noonday  bar  the  splendor  out. 

Lest  it  reproach  and  chide  our  sluggard  hearts, 

Warm-nestled  m  the  down  of  Prejudice, 

And  be  content,  though  clad  with  angel-wings, 

Close-clipped,  to  hop  about  from  perch  to  perch, 

In  paltry  cages  of  dead  men's  dead  thoughts  1 

O,  rather,  like  the  sky-lark,  soar  and  sing, 

And  let  our  gushing  songs  befit  the  dawn 

And  sunrise,  and  the  yet  unshaken  dew 

Brimming  the  chalice  of  each  full-blown  hope, 

Whose  blithe  front  turns  to  greet  the  growing  day  I 

Never  had  poets  such  high  call  before. 

Never  can  poets  hope  for  higher  one. 

And,  if  they  be  but  faithful  to  their  trust, 

Earth  will  remember  them  with  love  and  joy. 

And,  0,  far  better,  God  will  not  forget. 

For  he  who  settles  Freedom's  principles 

Writes  the  death-warrant  of  all  tyranny  ; 

Who  speaks  the  truth  stabs  Falsehood  to  the  heart, 

And  his  mere  word  makes  despots  tremble  more 

'J'han  ever  Brutus  with  his  dagger  could. 

Wait  for  no  hints  from  waterfalls  or  woods, 

Nor  dream  that  tales  of  red  men,  brute  and  fierce. 

Repay  the  finding  of  this  Western  World, 

Or  needed  half  the  globe  to  give  them  birth: 

Spirit  supreme  of  Freedom  !  not  for  this 

Did  great  Columbus  tame  his  eagle  soul 

To  jostle  with  the  daws  that  perch  in  courts; 

Not  for  this,  friendless,  on  an  unknown  sea. 

Coping  with  mad  waves  and  more  mutinous  spirits, 

Battled  he  with  the  dreadful  ache  at  heart 

Which  tempts,  with  devilish  subtleties  of  doubt. 

The  hermit  of  that  loneliest  solitude, 

The  silent  desert  of  a  great  New  Thought : 

Though  loud  Niagara  were  to-day  struck  dumb, 

Yet  would  this  cataract  of  boiling  life 

Rush  plunging  on  and  on  to  endless  deeps, 

And  utter  thunder  till  the  world  shall  cease, — 

A  thunder  worthy  of  the  poet's  song, 

And  which  alone  can  fill  it  with  true  life. 

The  high  evangel  to  our  country  granted 

Could  make  apostles,  yea,  with  tongues  of  fire, 

Of  hearts  half-darkened  back  again  to  clay  ! 

"T  is  the  soul  only  that  is  national. 

And  he  who  pays  true  loyalty  to  that 

Alone  can  claim  the  wreath  of  patriotism. 


VOICES    OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


195 


Beloved  !  if  I  wander  far  and  oft 
From  that  which  1  believe,  and  feel,  and  know, 
Thou  wilt  forgive,  not  with  a  sorrowing  heart. 
But  with  a  strengthened  hope  of  better  things  ; 
Knowing  that  I,  though  often  blind  and  false 
To  those  I  love,  and.  O,  more  false  than  all 
Unto  nnyself,  have  been  nnost  true  to  thee, 
And  that  whoso  in  one  thing  hath  been  true 
Can  be  as  true  in  all.     Therefore  thy  hope 
May  yet  not  prove  unfruitful,  and  thy  love 
Meet,  day  by  day,  with  less  unworthy  thanks, 
Whether,  as  now,  we  journey  hand  in  hand, 
Or,  parted  in  the  body,  yet  are  one 
In  spirit  and  the  love  of  holy  things. 


DEFORMING— REFORMING. 

BY  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD. 

I  went  last  week  to  Blackwell's  Island,  in  the 
East  River,  between  the  city  and  Long  Island.  The 
environs  of  the  city  are  unusually  beautiful,  consi- 
dering how  far  Autumn  has  advanced  upon  us.  Fre- 
quent rains  have  coaxed  vegetation  into  abundance, 
and  preserved  it  in  verdant  beauty.  The  trees  are 
hung  with  a  profusion  of  vines,  the  rocks  are  dressed 
in  nature's  green  velvet  of  moss,  and  from  every  lit- 
tle cleft  peeps  the  rich  foliage  of  some  wind- scattered 
seed.  The  island  itself  presents  a  quiet  loveliness  of 
scenery,  unsurpassed  by  anything  I  have  ever  wit- 
nessed ;  though  Nature  and  I  are  old  friends,  and  she 
has  shown  me  many  of  her  choicest  pictures,  in  a 
light  let  in  only  from  above.  No  form  of  graceful- 
ness can  compare  with  the  bend  of  flowing  waters 
all  round  and  round  a  verdant  island.  The  circle 
typifies  Love;  and  they  who  read  the  spiritual  alpha- 
bet, will  see  that  a  circle  of  waten  must  needs  be 
very  beautiful.  Beautiful  it  is,  even  when  the  lan- 
guage it  speaks  is  an  unknown  tongue.  Then  the 
green  hills  beyond  look  so  very  pleasant  in  the  sun- 
shine, with  lioines  nestling  an-,ongthem,  like  dimples 
on  a  smiling  face.  The  island  itself  abounds  with 
charming  nooks — open  wells  in  shady  places,  screen- 
ed by  large  weeping  willows ;  gardens  and  arbors 
running  down  to  the  river's  edge,  to  look  at  them- 
selves in  the  v/aters;  and  pretty  boats,  like  white- 
winged  birds,  chased  by  their  shadows,  and  breaking 
the  waves  into  gems. 

But  man  has  profaned  this  charming  retreat.  He 
has  brought  the  screech-owl,  the  bat,  and  the  vul- 
ture, into  the  holy  temple  of  Nature.  The  island 
belongs  to  government;  and  the  only  buildings  on  it 
are  penitentiary,  mad-house,  and  hospital ;  with  a 
few  dwellings  occupied  by  people  connected  with 
those  institutions.  The  discord  between  man  and 
nature  never  before  struck  me  so  painfully  ;  yet  it  is 
wise  and  kind  to  place  the  erring  and  the  diseased  in 


the  midst  of  such  calm,  bright  influences.  Man  may 
curse,  but  Natuie  for  ever  blesses.  The  guiltiest 
of  her  wandering  children  she  would  fain  enfold 
within  her  arms  to  the  friendly  heart-warmth  of  a 
mother's  bosom.  She  speaks  to  them  ever  in  the 
soft,  low  tones  of  earnest  love  ;  but  they,  alas,  toss- 
ed on  the  roaring,  stunning  surge  of  society,  forget 
the  quiet  language. 

As  I  looked  up  at  the  massive  walls  of  the  prison, 
it  did  my  heart  good  to  see  doves  nestling  within 
the  shelter  of  the  deep,  narrow,  grated  windows.  I 
thought  what  blessed  little  messengers  of  heaven 
they  would  appear  to  me,  if  I  were  in  prison  ;  but 
instantly  a  shadow  passed  over  the  sunshine  of  my 
thought.  Alas,  doves  do  not  speak  to  iheir  souls,  as 
they  would  to  mine ,-  for  they  have  lost  their  love 
for  child-like,  and  gentle  things.  How  have  they 
lost  it?  Society  with  its  unequal  distribution,  its  per- 
verted education,  its  manifold  injustice,  its  cold 
neglect,  its  biting  mockery,  has  taken  from  them  the 
gifts  of  God.  They  are  placed  here,  in  the  midst  of 
green  hills,  and  flowing  streams,  and  cooing  doves, 
after  the  heart  is  petrified  against  the  genial  influ- 
ence of  all  such  sights  and  sounds. 

As  usual,  the  organ  of  justice  (which  phrenolo- 
gists say  is  unusually  developed  in  my  head)  was 
roused  into  great  activity  by  the  sight  of  prisoners. 
'  Would  you  have  them  prey  on  Society  V  said  one 
of  my  companions.  I  answered,  <  I  am  troubled  that 
society  has  preyed  upon  them.  I  will  not  enter  into 
an  argument  about  the  right  of  society  to  punish 
these  sinners ;  but  I  say  she  made  them  sinners. 
How  much  I  have  done  toward  it,  by  yielding  to 
popular  prejudices,  obeying  false  customs,  and  sup- 
pressing vital  truths,  I  know  not ;  but  doubtless  1 
have  done,  and  am  doing,  my  share.  God  forgive 
me.  If  He  dealt  with  us,  as  we  deal  with  our  bro- 
ther, who  could  stand  before  him?' 

While  I  was  there,  they  brought  in  the  editors  of 
the  Flash,  the  Libertine,  and  the  Weekly  Rake.  My 
very  soul  loathes  such  polluted  publications  ;  yet  a 
sense  of  justice  again  made  me  refractory.  These 
men  were  perhaps  trained  to  such  service  by  all  the 
social  influences  they  had  ever  known.  They  dared 
to  publish  vvhat  nine-tenths  of  all  around  them  lived 
unreproved.     \\  by  should  they  be  imprisoned,  while 

flourished  in  the  full  tide  of  editorial 

success,  circulating  a  paper  as  immoral,  and  per- 
haps more  dangerous,  because  its  indecency  is  slight- 
ly veiled  ?  Why  should  the  Weekly  Rake  be  shut 
up,  when  daily  rakes  walk  Broadway  in  fine  broad- 
cloth and  silk  velvet  ? 

Many  more  than  half  the  inmates  of  the  peniten- 
tiary were  women  ;  and  of  course  a  large  proportion 
of  them  were  taken  up  as  -street-walkers.'  The 
men  who  made  them  such,  who,  perchance,  caused 
the  love  of  a  human  heart  to  be  its  ruin,  and  changed 
tenderness  into  sensuality  and  crime— these  men 
live  in  the  '  ceiled  houses'  of  Broadway,  and  sit  in 


196 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


council  in  the  City  Hall,  and  pass  'regulations'  to 
clear  the  streets  they  have  filled  with  sin.  And  do 
you  suppose  their  poor  victims  do  not  feel  the  injus- 
tice of  society  thus  regulated?  Think  you  they 
respect  the  laivs  ?  Vicious  they  are,  and  they  may 
Le  both  ignorant  and  foolish  ;  but,  nevertheless, 
they  are  too  wise  to  respect  such  laws.  Their 
whole  being  cries  out  that  it  is  a  mockery  ;  all  their 
experience  proves  that  society  is  a  game  of  chance, 
where  the  cunning  slip  through,  and  the  strong  leap 
over.  The  criminal  fech  this,  even  when  incapa- 
ble of  reasoniiiir  upon  it.  The  laws  do  not  secure 
his  reverence,  because  he  sees  that  their  operation  is 
unjust.  The  secrets  of  prisons,  so  far  as  they  are 
revealed,  all  tend  to  show  that  the  prevailing  feeling 
of  criminals,  of  all  grades,  is  that  they  are  wronij^id. 
What  we  call  justice,  they  regard  as  an  unlucky 
chance ,-  and  whosoever  looks  calmly  and  wisely 
into  the  foundations  on  which  society  rolls  and  tum- 
bles, (I  cannot  say  on  which  it  rests,  for  its  foun- 
dations heave  like  the  sea,)  will  perceive  that  they 
are  victims  of  chance. 

For  instance,  everything  in  school-books,  social 
remarks,  domestic  conversation,  literature,  public 
festivals,  legislative  proceedings,  and  popular  honors, 
all  teach  the  young  soul  that  it  is  noble  to  retaliate., 
mean  to  forgive  an  insult,  and  unmanly  not  to  resent 
a  wrong.  Animal  instincts,  instead  of  being  brought 
into  subjection  to  the  higher  powers  of  the  soul,  are 
thus  cherished  into  more  than  natural  activity.  Of 
three  men  thus  educated,  one  enters  the  army,  kills 
a  hundred  Indians,  hangs  their  scalps  on  a  tree,  is 
made  major  general,  and  considered  a  fitting  candi- 
date for  the  presidency.  The  second  goes  to  the 
Southwest  to  reside  ;  some  '  roarer'  calls  him  a  ras- 
cal— a  phrase  not  misapplied,  perhaps,  but  necessa- 
ry to  be  resented  ;  he  agrees  to  settle  the  question 
of  honour  at  ten  paces,  shoots  his  insnlter  through 
the  heart,  and  is  hailed  by  society  as  a  brave  man. 
The  third  lives  in  New  York ;  a  man  enters  his 
office,  and,  true,  or  untrue,  calls  him  a  knave.  He 
fights,  kills  his  adversary,  is  tried  by  the  laws  of 
the  land,  and  hung.  These  three  men  indulged  the 
same  passion,  acted  from  the  same  motives,  and 
illustrated  the  same  education ;  yet  how  different 
their  fate  ! 

With  regard  to  dishonesty,  too— the  maxims  of 
trade,  the  customs  of  society,  and  the  general  unre- 
flecting tone  of  public  conversation,  all  tend  to  pro- 
mote it.  The  man  who  has  made  <  good  bargains,' 
is  wealthy  and  honoured  ;  yet  the  details  of  those 
bargains  few  would  dare  to  pronounce  good.  Of 
two  young  men  nurtured  under  such  influences,  one 
becomes  a  successful  merchant ;  five  thousand  dol- 
lars are  borrowed  of  him. ;  he  takes  a  mortgage  on 
a  house  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars;  in  the  ab- 
sence of  the  owner,  when  sales  are  very  dull,  he 
offers  the  house  for  sale,  to  pay  his  mortgage;  he 
bids  it  in  himself,  for  four  thousand  dollars;    and 


afterwards  prosecutes  and  imprisons  his  debtor  for 
the  remaining  thousand.  Society  calls  him  a  shrewd 
business  man,  and  pronounces  his  dinners  excellent ; 
the  chance  is.  he  will  be  a  magistrate  before  he  dies. 
The  other  young  man  is  unsuccessful ;  his  necessi- 
ties are  great;  he  borrows  some  money  from  his 
employer's  drawer,  perhaps  resolving  to  restore  the 
same  ;  the  loss  is  discovered  before  he  has  a  chance 
to  refund  it ;  and  society  sends  him  to  BlackwelPs 
island,  to  hammer  stone  with  highway  robbers. 
Society  made  both  these  men  thieves  ;  but  punished 
the  one,  while  she  rewarded  the  other.  That  crimi- 
nals so  universally /«■/ themselves  victims  of  injus- 
tice, is  one  strong  proof  that  it  is  true;  for  impres- 
sions entirely  without  foundation  are  not  apt  to  be- 
come universal.  If  society  does  make  its  own 
criminals,  how  shall  she  cease  to  do  it  ?  It  can  be 
done  only  by  a  change  in  the  structure  of  society, 
that  will  diminish  the  temptations  to  vice,  and  in- 
crease the  encouragements  to  virtue.  If  we  can 
abolish  poverty,  we  shall  have  taken  the  greatest 
step  towards  the  abolition  of  crime ;  and  this  will 
be  the  final  triumph  of  the  gospel  of  Christ.  Diver- 
sities of  gifts  will  doubtless  always  exist :  for  the 
law  written  on  spirit,  as  well  as  matter,  is  infinite 
variety.  But  when  the  kingdom  of  God  comes  '  on 
earth  as  it  is  in  heaven,'  there  will  not  be  found  in 
any  corner  of  it  that  poverty  which  hardens  the  heart 
under  the  severe  pressure  of  physical  suffering,  and 
stultifies  the  intellect  with  toil  for  mere  animal 
wants.  When  public  opinion  regards  wealth  as  a 
means,  and  not  as  an  end,  men  will  no  longer  deem 
penitentiaries  as  a  necessary  evil  ;  for  society  will 
then  cease  to  be  a  great  school  for  crime.  In  the 
meantime,  do  penitentiaries  and  prisons  increase  or 
diminish  the  evils  they  are  intended  to  remedy  ? 

The  superintendent  at  Blackwell  told  me,  unask- 
ed, that  ten  years'  experience  had  convinced  him 
that  the  whole  system  tended  to  increase  crime.  He 
said,  of  the  lads  who  came  there,  a  large  proportion 
had  already  been  in  the  house  of  refuge;  and  a  large 
proportion  of  those  who  left,  afterward  went  to  Sing- 
Sing.  '  It  is  as  regular  a  succession  as  the  classes 
in  a  college,'  said  he,  '  from  the  house  of  refuge  to 
the  penitentiary,  and  from  the  penitentiary  to  the 
State  prison.'  I  remarked  that  coercion  tended  to 
rouse  all  the  bad  passions  in  man's  nature,  and  if 
long  continued,  hardened  the  whole  character.  '  I 
know  that,'  said  he,  '  from  my  own  experience;  all 
the  devil  there  is  in  me  rises  up  when  a  man  at- 
tempts to  compel  me.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  am 
olili<!;ed  to  be  very  strict.  When  my  feelings  tempt 
me  to  unusual  indulgence,  a  bad  use  is  almost  al- 
ways made  of  it.  I  sec  that  the  system  fails  to  pro- 
duce the  effect  intended  ;  but  I  cannot  change  the 
result.' 

1  felt  that  his  words  were  true.  He  could  not 
change  the  influence  of  the  system  while  he  dis- 
charged the  duties  of  his  office  ;  for  the  same  reason 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


197 


that  a  man  cannot  be  at  once  slave-driver  and  mis- 
sionary on  a  plantation.  I  allude  to  the  necessities 
of  the  office,  and  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  the  cha- 
racter of  the  individual  was  severe.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  prisoners  seemed  to  be  made  as  comfort- 
able as  was  compatible  with  their  situation.  There 
were  watch-towers,  with  loaded  guns,  to  prevent 
escape  from  the  island  ;  but  they  conversed  freely 
with  each  other  as  they  worked  in  the  sunshine, 
and  very  few  of  them  looked  wretched.  Among 
those  who  were  sent  under  guard  to  row  us  back  to 
the  city,  was  one  who  jested  on  his  own  situation, 
in  a  manner  which  showed  plainly  enough  that  he 
looked  on  the  whole  thing  as  a  game  of  chance,  in 
which  he  happened  to  be  the  loser.  Indulgence  can- 
not benefit  siich  characters.  What  is  wanted  is, 
that  no  human  being  should  grow  up  without  deep 
and  friendly  interest  from  the  society  round  him  ; 
and  that  none  should  feel  himself  the  victim  of  in- 
justice, because  society  punishes  the  very  sins  which 
it  teaches,  nay  drives  men  to  commit.  This  world 
would  be  in  a  happier  condition  if  legislators  spent 
half  as  much  time  and  labour  to  prevent  crime,  as 
they  do  to  punish  it.  The  poor  need  houses  of  en- 
couragement ;  and  society  gives  them  houses  of  cor- 
rection. Benevolent  institutions  and  reformatory 
societies  perform  but  a  limited  and  temporary  use. 
They  do  not  reach  the  ground-work  of  evil ;  and  it 
is  reproduced  too  rapidly  for  them  to  keep  even  the 
surface  healed.  The  natural  spontaneous  influences 
of  society  should  be  such  as  to  supply  men  with 
healthy  motives,  and  give  full,  free  play  to  the  affec. 
tions,  and  the  faculties.  It  is  horrible  to  see  our 
young  men  goaded  on  by  the  fierce,  speculating  spirit 
of  the  age,  from  the  contagion  of  which  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  escape,  and  then  see  them  tortured 
into  madness,  or  driven  to  crime,  by  fluctuating 
changes  of  the  money-market.  The  young  soul  is, 
as  it  were,  entangled  in  the  great  merciless  machine 
of  a  falsely-constructed  society ;  the  steam  he  had 
•no  hand  in  raising,  whirls  him  hither  and  thither, 
and  it  is  altogether  a  lottery-chance  whether  it 
crushes  or  propels  him. 

Many,  who  are  mourning  over  the  too  obvious 
■diseases  of  the  world,  will  smile  contemptuously  at 
the  idea  of  reconstruction.  But  let  them  reflect  a 
moment  upon  the  immense  changes  that  have  already 
come  over  society.  In  the  middle  ages,  both  noble 
and  peasant  would  have  laughed  loud  and  long  at  the 
prophecy  of  such  a  slate  of  society  as  now  exists  in 
the  free  States  of  America  ;  yet  here  we  are  ! 

I  by  no  means  underrate  modern  improvements  in 
the  discipline  of  prisons,  or  progressive  meliorations 
in  the  criminal  code.  I  rejoice  in  these  things  as 
facts,  and  still  more  as  prophecy.  Strong  as  my 
faith  is  that  the  time  will  come  when  war  and  prisons 
will  both  cease  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  I  am  by 
no  means  blind  to  the  great  difficulties  in  the  way 
of  those  who  are  honestly  striving  to  make  the  best 


of  things  as  they  ctrc.  Violations  of  right,  continued 
generation  after  generation,  and  interwoven  into  the 
whole  structure  of  action  and  opinion,  will  continue 
troublesome  and  injurious,  even  for  a  long  time  after 
they  are  outwardly  removed.  Legislators  and  phi- 
lanthropists may  well  be  puzzled  to  know  what  to 
do  with  those  who  have  become  hardened  in  crime  ; 
meanwhile,  the  highest  wisdom  should  busy  itself 
with  the  more  important  questions.  How  did  these 
men  become  criminals  ?  Are  not  social  influences 
largely  at  fault?  If  society  is  the  criminal,  were  it 
not  well  to  reform  society  ? 

i  is  common  to  treat  the  inmates  of  penitentiaries 
ami  prisons  as  if  they  were  altogether  unlike  our- 
selves—as if  they  belonged  to  another  race  ;  but  this 
indicates  superficial  thought  and  feeling.  The  pas- 
sions which  carried  those  men  to  prison,  exist  in  your 
own  bosom,  and  have  been  gratified,  only  in  a  less 
degree  :  perchance,  if  you  look  inward,  with  enlight- 
ened self-knowledge,  you  will  perceive  that  there 
have  been  periods  in  your  own  life  when  a  hair's- 
breadth  further  in  the  wrong  would  have  rendered 
you  amenable  to  human  laws  ;  and  that  you  were 
prevented  from  moving  over  that  hair's-breadth 
boundary  by  outward  circumstances,  for  which  you 
deserve  no  credit. 

If  reflections  like  these  make  you  think  lightly  of 
sin,  you  pervert  them  to  a  very  bad  use.  They 
should  teach  you  that  every  criminal  has  a  human 
heart,  which  can  be  reached  and  softened  by  the 
same  means  that  will  reach  and  soften  your  own.  In 
all,  even  the  most  hardened,  love  lies  folded  up,  per- 
chance buried  ;  and  the  voice  of  love  calls  it  forth, 
and  makes  it  gleam  like  living  coals  through  ashes. 
This  influence,  if  applied  in  season,  would  assuredly 
prevent  the  hardness,  which  it  has  so  much  power  to 
soften. 

That  most  tender-spirited  and  beautiful  book,  en- 
titled '  My  Prisons,  by  Sylvio  Pellico,'  abounds  with 
incidents  to  prove  the  omnipotence  of  kindness.  He 
was  a  gentle  and  noble  soul,  imprisoned  merely  for 
reasons  of  state,  being  suspected  of  republican  no- 
tions. Robbers  and  banditti,  confined  in  the  same 
building,  saluted  him  with  respect  as  they  passed 
him  in  the  court ;  and  he  always  returned  their  salu- 
tations with  brotherly  cordiality.  He  says,  '  One 
of  them  once  said  to  me,  '  Your  greeting,  signore, 
does  me  good.  Perhaps  you  see  something  in  my 
face  that  is  not  very  bad  ?  An  unhappy  passion  led 
me  to  commit  a  crime  ;  but  oh,  signore,  I  am  not, 
indeed  I  am  not  a  villain.'  And  he  burst  into  tears. 
1  held  out  my  hand  to  him,  but  he  could  not  take  it. 
My  guards,  not  from  bad  feelings,  but  in  obedience 
to  orders,  repulsed  him.' 

In  the  sight  of  God,  perchance  their  repulse  was 
a  heavier  crime  than  that  for  which  the  poor  fellow 
was  imprisoned ;  perhaps  it  made  him  a  '  villain,' 
when  the  genial  influence  of  Sylvio  Pellico  might 
have  restored  him  a  blessing  to  the  human  family. 


198 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


If  these  things  are  so,  for  what  a  frightful  amount  of 
■crime  are  the  coercing  and  repelling  influences  of 
society  responsible. 

I  have  not  been  happy  since  that  visit  to  Ijlack- 
■vvell's  Island.  There  is  something  painful,  yea,  ter- 
rific, in  feeling  myself  involved  in  the  great  wheel 
of  society,  which  goes  whirling  on,  crushing  thou- 
sands at  every  turn.  This  relation  of  the  individual 
to  the  mass  is  the  sternest  and  most  frightful  of  all 
the  conflicts  between  necessity  and  free  will.  Yet 
here,  too,  conflict,  nhoidd  be  harmony,  and  will  be 
so.  Put  far  away  from  thy  soul  all  desire  of  retali- 
•ation,  all  angry  thoughts,  all  disposition  to  overcome 
or  humiliate  an  adversary,  and  be  assured  thou  hast 
done  much  to  abolish  gallows,  chains,  and  prisons, 
though  thou  hast  never  written  or  spoken  a  word  on 
the  criminal  code. 

God  and  good  angels  alone  know  the  vast,  the  in- 
calculable influence  that  goes  out  into  the  universe 
of  spirit,  and  thence  flows  into  the  universe  of  mat- 
ter, from  the  conquered  evil,  and  the  voiceless  prayer, 
■of  one  solitary  soul.  Wouldst  thou  bring  the  world 
unto  God  ?  Then  live  near  to  him  thyself.  If  di- 
vine life  pervade  thine  own  soul,  every  thing  that 
touches  thee  will  receive  the  electric  spark,  though 
thou  mayest  be  unconscious  of  being  charged  thore- 
with.  This  surely  would  be  the  highest,  to  strive 
to  keep  near  the  holy,  not  for  the  sake  of  our  own 
reward  here  or  hereafter,  but  that  through  love  to 
God  we  might  bless  our  neighbour.  The  human 
soul  can  perceive  this,  and  yet  the  beauty  of  the 
•earth  is  every,where  defaced  with  jails  and  gibbets  ! 
Angelic  natures  can  never  deride,  else  were  there 
loud  laughter  in  heaven  at  the  discord  between  man's 
perceptions  and  his  practice. 

At  Long  Island  Farms  I  found  six  hundred  chil- 
dren, supported  by  the  public.  It  gives  them  whole- 
some food,  comfortable  clothing,  and  the  common 
rudiments  of  education.  For  this  it  deserves  praise. 
But  the  aliment  which  the  spirit  craves,  the  public 
has  not  to  give.  The  young  heart  asks  for  love, 
yearn?  for  love  —  but  its  own  echo  returns  to  it 
throGgh  empty  halls,  instead  of  answer. 

The  institution  is  much  lauded  by  visiters,  and 
not  without  reason ;  for  every  thing  looks  clean  and 
comfortable,  and  the  children  appear  happy.  The 
drawbacks  are  such  as  inevitably  belong  to  their 
situation,  as  children  of  the  public.  The  opjiressive 
feeling  is,  that  there  are  no  mofhers  there.  Every 
thing  moves  by  machinery,  as  it  always  must  with 
masses  of  children,  never  subdivided  into  families. 
In  one  place,  I  saw  a  stack  of  small  wooden  guns, 
and  was  informed  that  the  boys  were  daily  drilled 
to  military  exercises,  as  a  useful  means  of  forming 
habits  of  order,  as  well  as  fitting  them  for  the  future 
service  of  the  state.  Their  infant  school  evolutions 
partook  of  the  same  drill  character  ;  and  as  for  their 
religion,  I  was  informed  that  it  was  'beautiful  to 
see  them  pray ;  for  at  the  tip  of  the  whistle,  they 


all  dropped  on  their  knees.'  Alas,  poor  childhood, 
thus  doth  '  church  and  state'  provide  for  thee  !  The 
stale  arms  thee  with  wooden  guns,  to  play  the  future 
murderer,  and  the  church  teaches  thee  to  pray  in 
platoons,  'at  the  first  tip  of  the  whistle.'  Luckily 
they  cannot  drive  the  angf Is  from  thee,  or  most  as- 
suredly they  would  do  it,  pro  bono  publico. 

The  sleeping-rooms  were  clean  as  a  Shaker's 
apron.  When  I  saw  the  long  rows  of  nice  little 
beds,  ranged  side  by  side,  I  inquired  whether  there 
was  not  a  merry  buzz  in  the  morning.  <  They  are 
not  permitted  to  speak  at  all  in  the  sleeping  apart- 
ments,' replied  the  superintendent.  The  answer 
sent  a  chill  through  my  heart.  I  acknowledged  that 
in  such  large  establishments  the  most  exact  method 
was  necessary,  and  I  knew  that  the  children  had 
abundant  opportunity  for  fun  and  frolic  in  the  sun- 
shine and  the  open  fields,  in  the  after  part  of  the 
day  ;  but  it  is  so  natural  for  all  young  things  to  crow 
and  sing  when  they  open  their  eyes  to  the  morning 
light,  that  I  could  not  bear  to  have  the  cheerful  in- 
stinct perpetually  repressed. 

The  hospital  for  these  children  is  on  the  neigh- 
bouring island  of  Blackwell.  This  establishment, 
though  clean  and  well  supplied  with  outward  com- 
forts, was  the  most  painful  sight  I  ever  witnessed. 
About  one  hundred  and  fifty  children  were  there, 
mostly  orphans,  inheriting  every  variety  of  disease 
from  vicious  and  sickly  parents.  In  beds  all  of  a 
row.  or  rolling  by  dozens  over  clean  matting  on  the 
floor,  the  poor  little  pale,  shrivelled,  and  blinded 
creatures  were  waiting  for  death  to  come  and  release 
them.  Here  the  absence  of  a  mother's  love  was 
most  agonizing  ;  not  even  the  patience  and  gentle- 
ness of  a  saint  could  supply  its  place  ;  and  saints 
are  rarely  hired  by  the  public.  There  was  a  sort  of 
resignation  expressed  in  the  countenances  of  some 
of  the  little  ones,  which  would  have  been  beautiful 
in  maturer  years,  but  in  childhood  it  spoke  mourn- 
fully of  a  withered  soul.  It  was  pleasant  to  think 
that  a  large  proportion  of  them  would  soon  be  re- 
ceived by  the  angels,  who  will  doubtless  let  them 
sing  in  the  morning. 

That  the  law  of  Love  may  cheer  and  bless  even 
public  establishments,  has  been  proved  by  the  ex- 
ample of  the  Society  of  Friends.  They  formerly 
had  an  establishment  for  their  own  poor,  in  the  city 
of  Philadelphia,  on  a  plan  so  simple  and  so  beautiful, 
that  one  cannot  but  mourn  to  think  it  has  given 
place  to  more  common  and  less  brotherly  modes  of 
relief  A  nest  of  small  households  enclosed,  on 
three  sides,  an  open  space  devoted  to  gardens,  in 
which  each  had  a  share.  Here  each  poor  family 
lived  in  separate  rooms,  and  were  assisted  by  the 
Society  according  to  its  needs.  Sometimes  a  widow 
could  support  herself,  with  the  exception  of  rent; 
and  in  that  case,  merely  rooms  were  furnished  gratis. 
An  aged  couple  could  perhaps  subsist  very  comfort- 
ably, if  supplied  with  house  and  fuel ;  and  the  friend- 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


190 


ly  assistance  was  according  to  their  wants.  Some 
needed  entire  support;  and  to  such  it  was  unjirudg- 
ingly  given.  These  paupers  were  oftentimes  minis- 
ters and  elders,  took  the  highest  seats  in  the  meet- 
ing-house, and  had  as  much  influence  as  any  in  the 
affairs  of  the  Society.  Every  thing  conspired  to 
make  them  retain  undiminished  self-respect.  The 
manner  in  which  they  evinced  this  would  be  con- 
sidered impudence  in  the  tenants  of  onr  modern 
alms-houses.  One  old  lady  being  supplied  with  a 
load  of  wood  at  her  free  lodgings,  refused  to  take  it, 
saying,  that  it  did  not  suit  her ;  she  wanted  dry, 
small  wood.  <  But,' remonstrated  the  man,  '  I  was 
ordered  to  bring  it  here.'  '  I  can't  help  that.  Tell 
'em  the  best  wood  is  the  best  economy.  I  do  not 
want  such  wood  as  that.'  Her  orders  were  obeyed, 
and  the  old  lady's  wishes  were  gratified.  Another, 
who  took  great  pride  and  pleasure  in  the  neatness  of 
her  little  garden,  employed  a  carpenter  to  make  a 
trellis  for  her  vines.  Some  objection  was  made  to 
paying  this  bill,  it  being  considered  a  mere  super- 
fluity. But  the  old  lady  maintained  that  it  was 
necessary  for  her  comfort ;  and  at  meetings  and  all 
public  places,  she  never  failed  to  rebuke  the  elders. 
'  O  you  profess  to  do  unto  others  as  you  would  be 
done  by,  and  you  have  never  paid  that  carpenter  his 
bill.'  Worn  out  by  her  perseverance,  they  paid  the 
bill,  and  she  kept  her  trellis  of  vines.  It  probably 
was  more  necessary  to  her  comfort  than  many  things 
they  would  have  considered  as  not  superfluous. 

The  poor  of  this  establishment  did  not  feel  like 
dependents,  and  were  never  regarded  as  a  burden. 
They  considered  themselves  as  members  of  a  family, 
receiving  from  brethren  the  assistance  they  would 
have  gladly  bestowed  under  a  reverse  of  circum- 
stances. This  approaches  the  gospel  standard. 
Since  the  dawn  of  Christianity,  no  class  of  people 
have  furnished  an  example  so  replete  with  a  most 
wise  tenderness,  as  the  Society  of  Friends,  in  the 
days  of  its  purity.  Thank  God,  nothing  goojj  or  true 
ever  dies.  The  lifeless  form  falls  from  it,  and  it 
lives  elsewhere. 


TO  THE  DAISY. 
"  Her*  divine  skill  taught  me  this, 
That  from  every  thing  I  saw 
I  could  some  instruction  draw, 
And  raise  pleasure  to  the  height 
Through. the  meanest  object's  sight. 
By  the  murmur  of  a  spring. 
Or  the  least  bough's  rustelling; 
By  a  Daisy  whose  leaves  spread 
Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed; 
Or  a  shady  bush  or  tree  ; 
She  could  more  infuse  in  me 
Than  all  Nature's  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  man."  G.  Wither, 

*  His  muse. 


SONG  OF  THE  SPIRIT  OF  POVERTY. 

BY  ELIZA  COOK. 

A  song,  a  song,  for  the    Teldame  Queen, 
A  Queen  that  the  world  knows  well, 

Whose  portal  of  state  is  the  workhouse  gate, 
And  throne  the  prison  cell. 

I  have  been  crown'd  in  every  land. 

With  nightshade  steep'd  in  tears, 
I've  a  dog-gnavvn  bone  for  my  sceptre  wand 

Which  the  proudest  mortal  fears. 

No  gem  I  wear  in  my  tangled  hair. 

No  golden  vest  I  own. 
No  radiant  glow  tints  cheek  or  brow, 

Yet  say,  who  dares  my  frown  ? 

Oh,  I  am  a  Queen  of  a  ghastly  court, 

And  tyrant  sway  I  hold. 
Baiting  human  hearts  for  my  royal  sport. 

With  the  bloodhounds  of  Hunger  and  Cold. 

My  power  can  change  the  purest  clay 
From  its  first  and  beautiful  mould, 

Till  it  hideth  away  from  the  face  of  day, 
Too  hideous  to  behold. 

Mark  ye  the  wretch  who  has  cloven  and  cleft 

The  skull  of  the  lonely  one. 
And  quail'd  not  at  purpling  his  blade  to  the  heft. 

To  make  sure  that  the  deed  was  done. 

Fair  seeds  were  sown  in  his  infant  breast, 
That  held  goodly  blossom  and  fruit, 

But  I  trampled  them  down — Man  did  the  rest — 
And  God's  image  grew  into  the  brute. 

He  hath  been  driven,  and  haunted,  and  scourged. 

For  the  sin  I  bade  him  do. 
He  hath  wrought  the  lawless  work  I  urged 

Till  blood  seem'd  fair  to  his  view. 

I  shriek  with  delight  to  see  him  bedight 

In  fetters  that  chink  and  gleam, 
"  He  is  mine,"  I  shout,  as  they  lead  him  out 

From  the  dungeon  to  the  beam. 

See  the  lean  boy  clutch  his  rough-hewn  crutch, 

With  limbs  all  warp'd  and  worn, 
While  he  hurries  along  through  a  noisy  throng, 

^rhe  theme  of  their  gibing  scorn. 

Wealth  and  Care  would  have  rear'd  him  straight 

As  the  towering  mountain  pine, 
But  I  nursed  him  into  that  halting  gait, 

And  wither'd  his  marrowless  spine. 

Pain  may  be  heard  on  a  downy  bed. 

Heaving  the  groan  of  despair. 
For  Suffering  shuns  not  the  diadem's  head, 

And  abideth  everywhere. 


200 


VOICES   OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


But  the  shorten'd  breath  and  parching  lip, 

Are  vvatch'd  by  many  an  eye, 
And  there  is  balmy  drink  to  sip, 

And  tender  hands  to  ply. 

Come,  come  with  me,  and  ye  shall  see 

What  a  child  of  mine  can  bear. 
Where  squalid  shadows  thicken  tne  1  ght, 
•"And  foulness  taints  the  air. 

He  lieth  alone  to  gasp  and  moan, 

While  the  cancer  eats  his  flesh. 
With  the  old  rags  festering  on  his  wound, 

For  none  will  give  him  fresh. 

Oh,  carry  him  forth  in  a  blanket  robe. 

The  lazar-house  is  nigh, 
The  careless  hand  shall  cut  and  probe, 

And  strangers  see  him  die. 

Where's  the  escutcheon  of  blazon'd  worth  1 

Who  is  heir  to  the  famed  rich  man? 
Ha!  ha!  he  is  mine — dig  a  hole  in  the  earth, 

And  hide  him  as  soon  as  ye  can. 

Oh,  I  am  a  Queen,  of  a  ghastly  court, 

And  the  handmaids  that  I  keep. 
Are  such  phantom  things  as  Fever  brings 

To  haunt  the  fitful  sleep. 

See,  see,  they  come  in  my  haggard  train. 

With  jagg'd  and  matted  locks 
Hanging  round  them  as  rough  as  the  wild  steed's 
mane. 

Or  the  black  weed  on  the  rocks. 

They  come  with  broad  and  horny  palms, 

They  come  in  maniac  guise. 
With  angled  chins,  and  yellow  skins, 

And  hollow  staring  eyes. 

They  come  to  be  girded  with  leather  and  link, 

And  away  at  my  bidding  they  go. 
To  toil  where  the  soulless  beast  would  shrink. 

In  the  deep,  damp  caverns  below. 

Daughters  of  Beauty,  they  like  ye. 

Are  of  gentle  womankind. 
And  wonder  not  if  little  there  be, 

Of  angel  form  and  mind. 

If  I'd  held  your  cheeks  by  as  close  a  pinch. 
Would  that  flourishing  rose  be  found  1 

If  I'd  doled  you  a  crust  out,  inch  by  inch, 
Would  your  arms  have  been  so  round  ? 

Oh,  I  am  a  Queen  with  a  despot  rule. 

That  crushes  to  the  dust ! 
The  laws  I  deal,  bear  no  appeal. 

Though  ruthless  and  unjust. 


I  deaden  the  bosom  and  darken  the  brain. 
With  the  might  of  the  demon's  sk;ll  ; 

The  heart  may  struggle,  but  struggle  in  vain, 
As  I  grapple  it  harder  still. 

Oh,  come  with  me  and  ye  shall  see. 

How  well  1  begin  the  day. 
For  I'll  hie  to  the  hungriest  slave  I  have, 

And  snatch  his  loaf  away. 

Oh,  come  with  mc,  and  ye  shall  see 

How  my  skeleton  victims  fall  ; 
How  I  order  the  graves  without  a  stone, 

And  the  coffins  without  a  pall. 

Then  a  song,  a  song  for  the  Beldame  Queen — 
A  Queen  that  ye  fear  right  well ; 

For  my  portal  of  state  is  the  workhouse  gate, 
And  my  throne  the  prison-cell. 


A  WREN'S  NEST. 

EY  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

Among  the  dwellings  framed  by  birds 
In  field  or  forest  with  nice  care. 

Is  none  that  with  the  little  Wren's 
In  snugness  may  compare. 

No  door  the  tenement  requires, 

And  seldom  needs  a  laboured  roof; 

Yet  is  it  to  the  fiercest  sun 
Impervious,  and  storm-proof. 

So^varm,  so  beautiful  withal, 
In  perfect  fitness  for  its  aim. 

That  to  the  Kind  by  special  grace 
Their  instinct  surely  came. 

And  when  for  their  abodes  they  seek 

An  opportune  recess. 
The  Hermit  has  no  finer  eye 

For  shadowy  quietness. 

These  find,  'mid  ivied  abbey  walls, 
A  canopy  in  some  still  nook ; 

Others  are  pent-housed  by  a  brae 
That  overhangs  a  brook. 

There  to  the  brooding  bird  her  mate 
Warbles  by  fits  his  low  clear  song ; 

And  by  the  busy  streamlet  both 
Are  sung  to  all  day  long. 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED, 


201 


Or  in  sequestered  lanes  they  build, 
Where,  till  the  flitting  bird's  return, 

Her  eggs  within  the  nest  repose, 
Like  relics  in  an  urn. 

But  still,  where  general  choice  is  good. 

There  is  a  better  and  a  best ; 
And,  among  fairest  objects,  some 

Are  fairer  than  the  rest ; 

This,  one  of  those  small  builders  proved 
In  a  green  covert,  where,  from  out 

The  forehead  of  a  pollard  oak, 
The  leafy  antlers  sprout ; 

For  She  who  planned  the  mossy  lodge. 

Mistrusting  her  evasive  skill, 
Had  to  a  Primrose  looked  for  aid 

Her  wishes  to  fulfil. 

High  on  the  trunk's  projecting  brow, 
And  fixed  an  infant's  span  above 

The  budding  flowers,  peeped  forth  the  nest. 
The  prettiest  of  the  grove  ! 

The  treasure  proudly  did  I  show 

To  some  whose  minds  without  disdain 

Can  turn  to  little  things ;  but  once 
Looked  up  for  it  in  vain  : 

'Tis  gone — a  ruthless  spoiler's  prey, 
Who  heeds  not  beauty,  love,  or  song, 

'Tis  gone  !  (so  seemed  it)  and  we  grieved 
Indignant  at  the  wrong. 

Just  three  days  after,  passing  by 
In  clearer  light,  the  moss-built  cell 

I  saw,  espied  its  shaded  mouth. 
And  felt  that  all  was  well. 

The  Primrose  for  a  veil  had  spread 
The  largest  of  her  upright  leaves  ; 

And  thus,  for  purposes  benign, 
A  simple  flower  deceives. 

Concealed  from  friends  who  might  disturb 

Thy  quiet  with  no  ill  intent. 
Secure  from  evil  eyes  and  hands 

On  barbarous  plunder  bent. 

Rest,  Mother-bird  !  and  when  thy  young 
Take  flight,  and  thou  art  free  to  roam. 

When  withered  is  the  guardian  Flower, 
And  empty  thy  late  home, 

Think  how  ye  prospered,  thou  and  thine. 

Amid  the  unviolated  grove, 
Housed  near  the  growing  Primrose  tuft 

In  foresight,  or  in  love. 


WOMEN'S  RIGHTS  AND  DUTIES. 

BY  LYDIA   MARIA  Cnil^D. 

You  ask  what  are  my  opinions  about  <  Women's 
Rights.'  I  confess  a  strong  distaste  to  the  subject, 
as  it  has  been  generally  treated.  On  no  other  theme 
probably  has  there  been  uttered  so  much  of  false, 
mawkish  sentiment,  shallow  philosophy,  and  spur- 
tering,  farthing-candle  wit.  If  the  style  of  its  advo- 
cates has  often  been  ofl^ensive  to  taste,  and  unac- 
ceptable to  reason,  assuredly  that  of  its  opponents 
have  been  still  more  so.  College  boys  have  amused 
themselves  with  writing  dreams,  in  which  they  saw 
women  in  hotels,  with  their  feet  hoisted,  and  chairs 
tilted  back,  or  growling  and  bickering  at  each  other 
in  legislative  halls,  or  fighting  at  the  polls,  with 
eyes  blackened  by  fisticuffs.  But  it  never  seems  to 
have  occurred  to  these  facetious  writers,  that  the 
proceedings  which  appear  so  hidicrous  and  improper 
in  woiiieti,  are  also  ridiculous  and  disgraceful  in  men. 
It  were  well  that  men  should  learn  not  to  hoist  their 
feet  above  their  heads,  and  tilt  their  chairs  backward, 
not  to  growl  and  snap  in  the  halls  of  legislation,  nor 
give  each  other  black  eyes  at  the  polls. 

Maria  Edgeworth  says,  '  We  are  disgusted  when 
we  see  a  woman's  mind  overwhelmed  with  a  torrent 
of  learning:  that  the  tide  of  literature  has  passed 
over  it  should  be  betrayed  only  by  its  fertility.' 
This  is  beautiful  and  true ;  but  is  it  not  likewise 
applicable  to  man  ?  The  truly  great  never  seek  to 
display  themsevles.  If  they  carry  their  heads  high 
above  the  crowd,  it  is  only  made  manifest  to  others 
by  accidental  revelations  of  their  extended  vision. 
'  Human  duties  and  proprieties  do  not  lie  so  very 
far  apart,'  said  Harriet  Martineau  ;  <  if  they  did, 
there  would  be  two  gospels  and  two  teachers,  one 
for  man  and  another  for  woman.' 

It  would  seem,  indeed,  as  if  men  were  willing  to 
give  women  the  exclusive  benefit  of  gospel-teaching. 
■  Wonie:)  should  be  gentle,'  say  the  advocates  of  sub- 
ordination ;  but  when  Christ  said,  '  Blessed  are  the 
meek,'  did  he  preach  to  women  only  ?  <  Girls  should 
be  modest,'  is  the  language  of  common  teaching, 
continually  uttered  in  words  and  customs.  Would 
it  not  be  an  improvement  for  men  also  to  be  scrupu- 
lously pure  in  manners,  conversation  and  life  ?  . 
Books  addressed  to  young  married  people  abound 
with  advice  to  the  wife,  to  control  her  temper,  and 
never  to  utter  wearisome  complaints,  or  vexatious 
words,  when  the  husband  comes  home  fretful  or  un- 
reasonable, from  his  out-of-door  conflicts  with  the 
worhl.  Would  not  the  advice  be  as  excellent  and 
appropriate,  if  the  husband  were  advised  to  conquer 
his  fretfulness,  and  forbear  his  complaints,  in  con- 
sideration of  his  wife's  ill -health,  fatiguing  cares, 
and  the  thousand  disheartening  influences  of  domes- 
tic routine  ?  In  short,  whatsoever  can  be  named 
as  loveliest,  best,  and  most  graceful  in  woman, 
would  likewise  be  good  and  graceful  in  man.  You 
26 


202 


VOICES    OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


will  perhaps  remind  me  of  courage.  If  you  use  the 
word  in  its  highest  signification,  I  answer,  that 
woman,  above  others,  has  abundant  need  of  it  in  her 
pilgrimage  ;  and  the  true  woman  wears  it  with  a 
quiet  grace.  If  you  mean  mere  animal  courage, 
that  is  not  mentioned  in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount, 
among  those  qualities  which  enable  us  to  inherit 
the  earth,  or  become  the  children  of  God.  That 
the  feminine  ideal  approaches  much  nearer  to  the 
gospel  standard,  tlian  the  prevalent  idea  of  manhood, 
is  shown  by  the  universal  tendency  to  represent  the 
Saviour  and  his  most  beloved  disciple  with  mild, 
meek  expression,  and  feminine  beauty.  None  speak 
of  the  bravery,  the  migNt,  or  the  intellect  of  .Jesus  ; 
but  the  devil  is  always  imagined  as  a  being  of  acute 
intellect,  political  cunning,  and  the  fiercest  courage. 
These  universal  and  instinctive  tendencies  of  the 
human  mind  reveal  much. 

That  the  present  position  of  worheri  in  society  is 
the  result  of  physical  force,  is  obvious  enough  ;  who- 
soever doubts  it,  let  her  reflect  why  she  is  afraid  to 
go  out  in  the  evening  without  the  protection  of  a 
man.  What  constitutes  the  danger  of  aggression  ? 
Superior  physical  strength,  uncontrolled  by  the 
moral  sentiments.  If  physical  strength  were  in 
complete  subjection  to  moral  influence,  there  would 
be  no  need  of  outward  protection.  That  animal  in- 
stinct and  brute  force  now  govern  the  world,  is 
painfully  apparent  in  the  condition  of  women  every 
where  ;  ffoni  the  Morduan  Tartars,  whose  ceremony 
of  marriagfc  consists  in  placing  the  bride  on  a  mat, 
alid  consigning  her  to  the  bridegroom,  with  the 
words,  'Here,  wolf,  take  thy  lamb,' — to  the  German 
remark,  that  '  stiff"  ale,  stinging  tobacco,  and  a  girl 
in  her  smart  dress,  are  the  best  things.'  The  same 
thitig,  softened  by  the  refinements  of  civilization, 
peeps  out  in  Stephens's  remark,  that  '  woman  never 
looks  so  interesting,  as  when  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
a  soldier  :'  and  in  Hazlitt's  complaint  that  '  it  is  not 
easy  to  keep  up  a  conversation  with  women  in  com- 
pany. It  is  thought  a  piece  of  rlideness  to  difi'er 
from  them  ;  it  is  not  quite  fair  to  ask  them  a  reason 
for  what  they  say.' 

This  sort  of  politeness  to  women  is  what  men  call 
gallantry;  an  odious  word  to  every  sensible  woman. 
because  she  sees  that  it  is  merely  the  flimsy  veil 
%vhich  foppery  throws  over  sensuality,  to  conceal  its 
grossness.  So  far  is  it  from  indicating  sincere  es- 
teem and  afltction  for  women,  that  the  profligacy  of 
a  nation  may,  in  general,  be  fairly  measured  by  its 
gallantry.  This  taking  away  rifrhts,  and  conrlescend- 
ins;  to  grant  privileges,  is  an  old  trick  of  the  physi- 
cal-force principle  ;  and  with  the  immense  majority, 
who  only  look  on  the  surface  of  things,  this  mask 
eflTectually  disguises  an  ugliness,  which  would  other- 
wise be  abhorred.  The  most  inveterate  slaveholders 
are  probably  those  who  take  most  pride  in  dressing 
their  household  servants  handsomely,  and  who  would 
be  most  ashamed  to  have  the  name  of  being  nrmcnsfiri- 


rily  cruel.  .A  nd  profligates,  who  form  the  lowest  and 
most  sensual  estimate  of  women,  are  the  very  ones 
to  treat  them  with  an  excess  of  outward  deference. 

'J'here  are  few  books,  which  I  can  read  through, 
without  feeling  insulted  as  a  woman  ;  but  this  in- 
sult is  almost  universally  conveyed  through  that 
which  was  intended  for  praise.  Just  imagine,  for  a 
moment,  what  impression  it  would  make  on  men, 
if  women  authors  should  write  about  their  « rosy 
lips,'  and  melting  eyes,  and  voluptuous  forms,  as 
as  they  write  about  us  !  That  women  in  general 
do  not  feel  this  kind  of  flattery  to  be  an  insult,  I 
readily  admit;  for,  in  the  first  place,  they  do  not 
perceive  the  gross  chattel-principle,  of  which  it  is 
the  utterance;  moreover,  they  have,  from  long  habit, 
become  accustomed  to  consider  themselves  as  house- 
hold conveniences,  or  gilded  toys.  Hence,  they 
consider  it  feminine  and  pretty  to  abjure  all  such 
use  of  their  faculties,  as  would  make  them  co- 
workers with  man  in  the  advancement  of  those  great 
principles,  on  which  the  progress  of  Society  depends. 
'  There  is  perhaps  no  animal,''  says  Hannah  More, 
'  so  much  indebted  to  subordination,  for  its  good 
behaviour,  as  women.'  Alas,  for  the  animal  age,  in 
which  such  utterance  could  be  tolerated  by  public 
sentiment ! 

Martha  More,  sister  of  Hannah,  describing  a  very 
impressive  scene  at  the  funeral  of  one  of  her  Charity 
School  teachers,  says :  '  The  spirit  within  seemed 
struggling  to  speak,  and  I  was  in  a  sort  of  agony  ; 
but  I  recolletted  that  I  had  heard,  somewhere,  a 
woman  must  not  speak  in  the  church.  Oh,  had  she 
been  buried  in  the  church  yard,  a  messenger  from 
Mr.  Pitt  himself  should  not  have  restrained  me;  for 
I  seemed  to  have  received  a  message  from  a  higher 
Master  within.' 

This  application  of  theological  teaching  carries  its 
own  commentary. 

I  have  said  enough  to  show  that  I  consider  preva- 
lent opinions  and  customs  highly  unfavourable  to  the 
moral  and  intellectual  development  of  women  :  and 
I  need  not  say,  that,  in  proportion  to  their  true  cul 
ture,  women  will  be  more  useful  and  happy,  and 
domestic  life  more  perfected.  True  culture,  in  them, 
as  in  men,  consists  in  the  full  and  free  development 
of  individual  character,  regulated  by  their  uivn  per- 
ceptions of  what  is  true,  and  their  own  love  of  what 
is  good. 

This  individual  responsibility  is  rarely  acknow- 
ledged, even  by  the  most  refined,  as  necessary  to  the 
spiritual  progress  of  women.  I  once  heard  a  very 
beautiful  lecture  from  R.  W.  Emerson,  on  Being 
and  Seeming.  In  the  course  of  many  remarks,  as 
true  as  they  were  graceful,  he  urged  women  to  he, 
rather  than  seem.  He  told  them  that  all  their  la- 
boured education  of  forms,  strict  observance  of  gen- 
teel etiquette,  tasteful  arrangemcjit  of  the  toilette, 
he,  all  this  .ferniins;  would  not  f^nin  heart.'i  like 
l)(iii<rX\y\\y  what  God  made  them  ;  that  earnest  sim- 


VOICES    OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


203 


plicity,  the  sincerity  of  nature,  would  kindle  the 
eye,  light  up  the  countenance,  and  give  an  inexpres- 
sible charin  to  the  plainest  features. 

The  advice  was  excellent,  but  the  motive,  by 
which  it  was  urged^  brought  a  flush  of  indignation 
over  my  face.  Men  were  exhorted  to  be,  rather 
than  to  sefm,  that  they  might  fulfil  the  sacred  mis- 
sion for  which  their  souls  were  embodied  ;  that  they 
might,  in  God's  freedom,  grow  up  into  the  full  sta- 
ture of  spiritual  manhood  ;  but  women  were  urged 
to  simplicity  and  truthfulness,  that  they  might  be- 
come more  pleasing. 

Are  we  not  all  immortal  beings  ?  Is  not  each 
one  responsible  for  -himself  and  herself?  There  is 
no  measuring  the  mischief  done  by  the  prevailing 
tendency  to  teach  women  to  be  virtuous  as  a  duty 
to  man  rather  than  to  God — for  the  sake  of  pleasing 
the  creature,  rather  than  the  Creator.  '  Gnd  is  thy 
law,  fhoum.iue,''  said  Eve  to  Adam.  May  Milton  be 
forgiven  for  sending  that  thought  'out  into  everlast- 
ing time'  in  such  a  jewel  setting.  What  weakness, 
vanity,  frivolity,  infirmity  of  moral  purpose,  sinful 
flexibility  of  principle — in  a  word,  what  soul-stiiliii;ig, 
has  been  the  result  of  thus  putting  man  in  the  place 
of  God ! 

But  while  I  see  plainly  that  society  is  on  a  false 
foundation,  and  that  prevailing  views  concerning 
women  indicate  the  want  of  wisdom  and  purity, 
which  they  serve  to  perpetuate — still,  I  must  acknow- 
ledge that  much  of  the  talk  about  Women's  Rights 
offends  both  my  reason  and  my  taste.  I  am  not  of 
those  who  maintain  there  is  no  sex  in  souls ;  nor  do 
I  like  the  results  deducible  from  that  doctrine.  Kin- 
mont,  in  his  admirable  book,  called  the  Natural  His- 
tory of  Man,  speaking  of  the  war-like  courage  of  the 
ancient  German  women,  and  of  their  being  respect- 
fully consulted  on  important  public  affairs,  says  : 
'  You  ask  me  if  I  consider  all  this  right,  and  deserv- 
ing of  approbation  ?  or  that  women  were  here  en- 
gaged in  their  appropriate  tasks  ?  I  answer,  yes  ; 
it  is  just  as  right  that  they  should  take  this  interest 
in  the  honour  of  their  country,  as  the  other  sex.  Of 
course,  I  do  not  think  that  women  were  made  for 
war  and  battle  ;  neither  do  I  believe  that  n^en  were 
But  since  the  fashion  of  the  times  had  made  it  so, 
and  settled  it  that  war  was  a  necessary  element  of 
greatness,  and  that  no  safety  was  to  be  procured 
without  it,  I  argue  that  it  shows  a  healthful  state  of 
feeling  in  other  respects,  that  the  feelings  of  both 
sexes  were  equally  enlisted  in  the  cause :  that  there 
was  no  division  in  the  house,  or  the  state ;  and  that 
the  serious  pursuits  and  objects  of  the  one  were  also 
the  serious  pursuits  and  objects  of  the  other.' 

The  nearer  society  approaches  to  divine  order,  the 
less  separation  will  there  be  in  the  characters,  duties, 
and  pursuits  of  men  and  women.  Women  will  not 
become  less  gentle  and  graceful,  but  men  will  be- 
come more  so.  Women  will  not  neglect  the  care 
and  education  of  their  children,   but  men  will  find 


themselves  ennobled  and  refined  by  sharing  thos 
duties  with  them ;  and  will  receive,  in  return,  co 
operation  and  sympathy  in  the  discharge  of  various 
01  her  duties,  now  deemed  inappropriate  to  women. 
The  more  women  become  rational  companions,  part- 
ners in  business  and  in  thought,  as  well  as  in  affec- 
tion afid  amusement,  the  more  highly  will  men 
appreciate  huine — that  blessed  word,  which  opens 
to  the  human  heart  the  most  perfect  glimpse  of 
Heaven,  and  helps  to  carry  it  thither,  as  on  an 
angel's  wings. 

'  Domestic  bliss, 
That  can,  tlie  world  eluding,  be  iiself 
A  world  enjoyed  ;   that  wants  no  witnesses 
But  its  own  sharers  and  approving  heaven; 
That,  like  a  tlower  deep  hid  in  rocky  cleft. 
Smiles,  though  'tis  looking  only  at  the  sky.' 

Alas,  for  these  days  of  Astor  houses,  and  Tre- 
monts,  and  Albions  !  where  families  exchange  com- 
fort for  costliness,  fireside  retirement  for  flirtation 
and  flaunting,  and  the  simple,  healthful,  cozy  meal, 
for  gravies  and  gout,  dainties  and  dyspepsia.  There 
is  no  characteristic  of  my  countrymen,  which  I  re- 
gret so  deeply,  as  their  slight  degree  of  adhesiveness 
to  home.  Closely  intertwined  with  this  instinct,  is 
the  religion  of  a  nation.  The  Home  and  the  Churph 
bear  a  near  relation  to  each  other.  The  French 
have  no  such  word  as  home  in  their  language,  and  I 
believe  they  are  the  least  reverential  and  religious 
of  all  the  Christian  nations.  A  Frenchman  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  visiting  a  lady  constantly  for  several 
years,  and  being  alarmed  at  a  report  that  she  was 
sought  in  marriage,  he  was  asked  why  he  did  not 
marry  her  himself  <  Marry  her  !'  exclaimed  he, — 
'  Good  heavens  I  where  should  I  spend  my  evenings .?' 
The  idea  of  domestic  happiness  was  altogether  a 
foreign  idea  to  his  soul,  like  a  word  that  conveyed 
no  meaning.  Religious  sentiment  in  France  leads 
the  sarqe  roving  life  as  the  domestic  affections ; 
breakfasting  at  one  restaurateur's  and  supping  at 
another's.  When  some  wag  in  Boston  reported  thai 
Louis  Philippe  had  sent  over  for  Dr.  Channing  to 
manufacture  a  religion  for  the  French  people,  the 
witty  significance  of  the  joke  was  generally  ap- 
preciated. 

There  is  a  deeper  spiritual  reason  why  all  that 
relates  to  the  domestic  affections  should  ever  be 
found  in  close  proximity  with  religious  faith.  The 
age  of  chivalry  was  likewise  one  of  unquestioning 
veneration,  which  led  to  the  crusade  for  the  holy 
sepulchre.  The  French  revolution,  which  tore  down 
churches,  and  voted  that  there  was  no  God,  likewise 
annulled  marriage  ;  and  the  doctrine,  that  there  is 
no  sex  in  souls,  has  usually  been  urged  by  those  of 
infidel  tendencies.  Carlyle  says,  <  But  what  feeling 
it  was  in  the  ancient,  devout,  deep  soul,  which  of 
marriage  made  a  sacrament,  this,  of  all  things  in  the 
world,  is  what  Diderot  will  think  of  for  aeons  with 
out  discovering ;  unless  perhaps  it  were  to  increase 
the  vestry  fees.' 


204 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


The  conviction  that  woman's  present  position  in 
society  is  a  false  one,  and  therefore  re-acts  disas- 
trously on  the  happiness  and  improvement  of  man, 
is  pressing  by  slow  degrees  on  the  common  con- 
sciousness, through  all  the  obstacles  of  bi<:otry,  sen- 
suality, and  selfishness.  As  man  approaches  to  the 
truest  life,  he  will  perceive  more  and  more  that 
there  is  no  separation  or  discord  in  their  mutual 
duties.  They  will  be  one;  but  it  will  be  as  affec- 
tion and  thought  are  one  :  the  treble  and  bass  of  the 
same  harmonious  tune. 


THE  FORLORN. 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

The  night  is  dark,  the  stinging  sleet. 

Swept  by  the  bitter  gusts  of  air, 
Drives  whistling  down  the  lonely  street, 

And  stiffens  on  the  pavement  bare. 

The  street-lamps  flare  and  struggle  dim 

Through  the  white  sleet-clouds  as  they  pass, 

Or,  governed  by  a  boisterous  whim. 
Drop  down  and  rattle  on  the  glass. 

One  poor,  heart-broken,  outcast  girl 
Faces  the  east-wind's  searching  flaws. 

And,  as  about  her  heart  they  whirl. 
Her  tattered  cloak  more  tightly  draws. 

The  flat  brick  walls  look  cold  and  bleak, 
Her  bare  feet  to  the  sidewalk  freeze ; 

Yet  dares  she  not  a  shelter  seek, 

Though  faint  with  hunger  and  disease. 

The  sharp  storm  cuts  her  forehead  bare, 
And,  piercing  through  her  garments  thin. 

Beats  on  her  shrunken  breast,  and  there 
Makes  colder  the  cold  heart  within. 

She  lingers  where  a  ruddy  glow 

Streams  outward  through  an  open  shutter, 
Giving  more  bitterness  to  woe. 

More  loneness  to  desertion  utter. 

One  half  the  cold  she  had  not  felt. 

Until  she  saw  this  gush  of  light 
Spread  warmly  forth,  and  seem  to  melt 

Its  slow  way  through  the  deadening  night. 

She  hears  a  woman's  voice  within. 

Singing  sweet  words  her  childhood  knew. 

And  years  of  misery  an<l  sin 

Furl  off  and  leave  her  heaven  blue. 

Her  freezing  heart,  like  one  who  sinks 
Outwearied  in  the  drifting  snow. 

Drowses  to  deadly  sleep,  and  thinks 
No  longer  of  its  hopeless  woe  : 


Old  fields,  and  clear  blue  summer  days. 
Old  meadows,  green  with  grass  and  trees, 

That  shimmer  through  the  trembling  haze 
And  whiten  in  the  western  breeze, — 

Old  faces,— all  the  friendly  past 

Rises  within  her  heart  again. 
And  sunshine  from  her  childhood  cast 

Makes  summer  of  the  icy  rain. 

Enhaloed  by  a  mild,  warm  glow, 

From  all  humanity  apart, 
She  hears  old  footsteps  wandering  slow 

Through  the  lone  chambers  of  her  heart. 

Outside  the  porch  before  the  door, 
Her  cheek  upon  the  cold,  hard  stone. 

She  lies,  no  longer  foul  and  poor, 
No  longer  dreary  and  alone. 

Next  morning,  something  heavily 
Against  the  opening  door  did  weigh. 

And  there,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
A  woman  on  the  threshold  lay. 

A  smile  upon  the  wan  lips  told 
That  slie  had  found  a  calm  release. 

And  that,  from  out  the  want  and  cold, 
'J  he  song  had  borne  her  soul  in  peace. 

For,  whom  the  heart  of  man  shuts  out. 
Straightway  the  heart  of  God  takes  in. 

And  fences  them  all  round  about 

With  silence  mid  the  world's  loud  din  ; 

And  one  of  his  great  charities 
Is  Music,  and  it  doth  not  scorn 

To  close  the  lids  upon  the  eyes 
Of  the  polluted  and  forlorn  ; 

Far  was  she  from  her  childhood's  home. 
Farther  in  guilt  had  wandered  thence, 

Yet  thither  it  had  bid  her  come 
To  die  in  maiden  innocence. 


OLD  MAIDS. 

BY  HAKS  VON  SPIRGEL. 

I  am  a  lover  of  all  woman  kind, 

And  maidens  old  are  not  old  inakh  to  me. 
Thoufih  beauty  flees,  there  still  remains  the  mind, 

And  mind  is  surely  better  company  ! 
What  though  the  harp  be  new  and  trimmed  with  gold; 

Does  sweeter  music  tremble  in  its  tone 
Than  when  the  gaudy  polish  has  grown  old. 

And  nought  is  left  but  sweet  accord  alone  ? 
Or  is  the  gem  held  in  less  high  esteem. 

Because  the  casket  is  defaced  by  time  ? 
A  woman's  mind,  a  priceless  gem  I  deem; — 

Her  heart,  a  harp  that  music  yields  sublime. 
So  wonder  not  that  years  hide  noc  from  me 

The  jewel's  glow— the  harp's  sweet  melody. 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


205 


BIRDS. 


BY  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD. 


There  is  nothing  which  makes  me  feel  the  im- 
prisonment of  a  city,  like  the  absence  of  birds. 
Blessings  on  the  little  warblers!  Lovely  types 
are  they  of  all  winged  and  graceful  thoughts.  Dr. 
Follen  used  to  say,  '  I  feel  dependent  for  a  vigorous 
and  hopeful  spirit  on  now  and  then  a  kind  word,  the 
loud  laugh  of  a  child,  or  the  silent  greeting  of  a 
flower.'  Fully  do  I  sympathize  with  this  utterance 
of  his  gentle  and  loving  spirit ;  but  more  than  the 
benediction  of  the  flower,  more  perhaps  than  even 
the  mirth  of  childhood,  is  the  clear,  joyous  note  of 
the  bird  a  refreshment  to  my  soul. 

'  The  bird.s  t  the  birds  of  summer  hours, 

They  bring  a  gush  of  glee, 
To  the  child  amtmg  the  fragrant  flowers, 

To  the  sailor  on  the  sea. 
"We  hear  their  thrilling  voices 

In  tlieir  swift  and  airj  flight, 
•  And  the  inmost  heart  rejoices 

With  a  calm  and  pure  delight. 
Amid  the  morning's  flagrant  dew, 

Amidst  the  mists  of  even, 
They  warble  on,  as  if  they  drew 

Tlieir  music  down  from  Heaven. 
And  when  their  hol.y  anthems 

Come  pealing  througli  the  air, 
Our  hearts  leap  forth  to  meet  them. 

With  a  blessing  and  a  prayer.' 

But  alas!  like  the  free  voices  of  fresh  youth,  they 
come  not  on  the  city  air.  Thus  should  it  be  ;  where 
mammon  imprisons  all  thoughts  and  feelings  that 
would  fly  upward,  their  winged  types  should  be  in 
cages  too.  Walk  down  Mulberry-street,  and  you 
may  see,  in  one  small  room,  hundreds  of  little 
feathered  songsters,  each  hopping  about  restlessly  in 
his  gilded  and  garlanded  cage,  like  a  dyspeptic  mer- 
chant in  his  marble  mansion.  I  always  turn  my 
head  away  when  I  pass  ;  for  the  sight  of  the  little 
captives  goes  through  my  heart  like  an  arrow.  The 
darling  little  creatures  have  such  visible  delight  in 
freedom ; 

'  In  the  joyous  song  they  sing  ; 

In  the  liquid  air  they  cleave  ; 
In  the  sunshine  ;  in  the  shower; 

In  (he  nests  they  weave.' 

I  seldom  see  a  bird  encaged,  without  being  reminded 
of  Petion,  a  truly  great  man,  the  popular  idol  of 
Haiti,  as  Washington  is  of  the  United  States. 

While  Petion  administered  the  government  of  the 
island,  some  distinguished  foreigner  sent  his  little 
daughter  a  beautiful  bird,  in  a  very  handsome  cage. 
The  child  was  delighted,  and  with  great  exultation 
exhibited  the  present  to  her  father.  '  It  is  indeed 
very  beautiful,  my  daughter,'  said  he  ;  '  but  it  makes 
my  heart  ache  to  look  at  it.  I  hope  you  will  nsver 
show  it  to  me  again.' 

With  great  astonishment,  she  inquired  his  reasons. 
He  replied,  '  When  this  island  was  called  St.  Domin- 
go, we  were  all  slaves.  It  makes  me  think  of  it  to 
look  at  that  bird  ;  for  he  is  a  slave.' 

The  little  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her  lips 


quivered,  as  she  exclaimed,  <  Why,  father  !  he  has 
such  a  large,  handsome  cage  ;  and  as  much  as  ever 
he  can  eat  and  drink.' 

'  And  would  you  be  a  slave,'  said  he,  '  if  you  could 
live  in  a  great  house,  and  be  fed  on  frosted  cake  V 

After  a  moment's  thought,  the  child  began  to  say 
half  reluctantly,  '  Would  he  be  happier,  if  I  opened 
the  door  of  his  cage?'  '  He  would  be  free  .'^  was 
the  emphatic  reply.  Without  another  word,  she 
took  the  cage  to  the  open  window,  and  a  moment 
after,  she  saw  her  prisoner  playing  with  the  hum- 
ming-birds among  the  honey-suckles. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  cases  of  instinctive 
knowledge  in  birds  was  often  related  by  my  grand- 
father, who  witnessed  the  fact  with  his  own  eyes. 
He  was  attracted  to  the  door,  one  summer  day,  by 
a  troubled  twittering,  indicating  distress  and  terror. 
A  bird,  who  had  built  her  nest  in  a  tree  near  the 
door,  was  flying  back  and  forth  with  the  utmost 
speed,  uttering  wailing  cries  as  she  went.  He  was 
at  first  at  a  loss  to  account  for  her  strange  move- 
ments ;  but  they  were  soon  explained  by  the  sight 
of  a  snake  slowly  winding  up  the  tree. 

Animal  magnetism  was  then  unheard  of;  and  who- 
soever had  dared  to  mention  it,  would  doubtless 
have  been  hung  on  Witch's  Hill,  without  benefit  of 
clergy.  Nevertheless,  marvellous  and  altogether 
unaccountable  stories  had  been  told  of  the  snake's 
power  to  charm  birds.  The  popular  belief  was  that 
the  serpent  charmed  the  bird  by  lucking  steadily  at 
it ;  and  that  such  a  sympathy  was  th'>  eby  eatublish- 
ed,  that  if  the  snake  was  struck,  the  bird  felt  the  blow, 
and  writhed  under  it. 

These  traditions  excited  my  grandfather's  curiosi- 
ty to  watch  the  progress  of  things  ;  but,  being  a 
humane  man,  he  resolved  to  kill  the  snake  before  he 
had  a  chance  to  despoil  the  nest.  The  distressed 
mother  meanwhile  continued  her  rapid  movements 
and  troubled  cries  ;  and  he  soon  discovered  that  she 
went  and  came  continually,  with  something  in  her 
bill,  frorn  one  particular  tree— a  white  ash.  The 
snake  wound  his  way  up ;  but  the  instant  his  head 
came  near  the  nest,  his  folds  relaxed,  and  he  fell  to 
the  ground  rigid,  and  apparently  lifeless.  My  grand- 
father made  sure  of  his  death  by  cutting  off  his  head, 
and  then  mounted  the  tree  to  examine  into  the  mys- 
tery. The  snug  little  nest  was  filled  with  eggs,  and 
covered  with  leaves  of  the  white  ash  ! 

The  little  bird  knew,  if  my  readers  do  not,  that 
contact  with  the  white  ash  is  deadly  to  a  snake. 
This  is  no  idle  superstition,  but  a  veritable  fact  in 
natural  history.  The  Indians  are  aware  of  it,  and 
twist  garlands  of  white  ash  leaves  about  their 
ankles,  as  a  protection  against  rattlesnakes.  Slaves 
often  take  the  same  precaution  when  they  travel 
through  swamps  and  forests,  guided  by  the  north  star; 
or  to  the  cabin  of  some  poor  white  man,  who  teaches 
them  to  read  and  write  by  the  light  oi  pine  splinters, 
and  receives  his  pay  in  '  massa's'  corn  or  tobacco. 


206 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


I  have  never  heard  any  explanation  of  the  effect 
produceil  by  the  white  ash  ;  but  I  know  that  settlers 
in  the  wilderness  like  to  have  these  trees  round  their 
log  houses,  being  convinced  that  no  snake  will  vo- 
luntarily come  near  them.  When  touched  with  the 
boughs,  they  are  said  to  grow  suddenly  rigid,  with 
strong  convulsions ;  after  a  while  they  slowly  re. 
cover,  but  seem  sickly  for  some  time. 

The  following  well  authenticated  anecdote  has 
something  wonderfully  human  about  it : 

A  parrot  had  been  caught  young,  and  trained  by  a 
Spanish  lady,  who  sold  it  to  an  English  sea-captain. 
For  a  time  the  bird  seemed  sad  among  the  fogs  of 
England,  where  birds  and  men  all  spoke  to  her  in 
a  foreign  tongue.  By  degrees,  however,  she  learn- 
ed the  language,  forgot  her  Spanish  phrases,  and 
seemed  to  feel  at  home.  Years  passed  on,  and  found 
Pretty  Poll  the  pet  of  the  captain's  family.  At  last 
her  brilliant  feathers  began  to  turn  grey  with  age; 
she  could  take  no  food  but  soft  pulp,  and  had  not 
strength  enough  to  mount  her  perch.  But  no  one 
had  the  heart  to  kill  the  old  favourite,  she  was 
entwined  with  so  many  pleasant  household  recol- 
lections. She  had  been  some  time  in  this  feeble 
condition,  when  a  Spanish  gentleman  called  one  day 
to  see  her  master.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
heard  the  language  for  many  years.  It  probably 
brought  back  to  memory  the  scenes  of  her  youth  in 
that  beautiful  region  of  vines  and  sunshine.  She 
spread  forth  her  wings  with  a  wild  scream  of  joy, 
rapidly  ran  over  the  Spanish  phrases,  which  she  had 
not  uttered  for  years,  and  fell  down  dead. 

There  is  something  strangely  like  reason  in  this. 
Itmakes  one  want  to  know  whence  comes  the  bird's 
soul,  and  whither  goes  it. 

There  are  different  theories  on  the  subject  of  in- 
stinct. Some  consider  it  a  special  revelation  to  each 
creature  ;  others  believe  it  is  founded  on  traditions 
handed  down  among  animals,  from  generation  to 
generation,  and  is  therefore  a  matter  of  education. 
My  own  observation,  two  years  ago,  tends  to  con- 
firm the  latter  theory.  Two  barn-swallows  came 
into  our  wood-shed  in  the  spring  time.  Their  busy, 
earnest  twitterings  led  meatonce  to  suspect  that  they 
were  looking  out  a  building-spot ;  but  as  a  carpenter's 
bench  was  under  the  window,  and  frequent  hammer- 
ing, sawing,  and  planing  were  going  on,  I  had  little 
hope  they  would  choose  a  location  under  our  roof. 
To  my  surprise,  however,  they  soon  began  to  build 
in  the  crotch  of  a  beam,  over  the  open  door- way.  I 
was  delighted,  and  spent  more  time  in  watching 
them,  than  <  penny-wise'  people  would  liave  approv- 
ed. It  was,  in  fact,  a  beautiful  little  drama  of  do- 
mestic love.  The  mother  bird  was  so  busy,  and  su 
important;  and  her  mate  was  .s(y attentive  !  Never 
did  any  newly-married  couple  take  more  satisfaction 
with  their  first  nicely-arranged  drawer  of  baby- 
clothes,  tlian  these  did  in  fashioning  their  littK' 
woven  cradle. 


'J  he  father-bird  scarcely  ever  left  the  side  of  the 
nest.  There  he  was,  all  day  long,  twittering  in 
tones  that  were  most  obviously  the  outpourings  of 
love.  Sometimes  he  would  bring  in  a  straw,  or  a 
hair,  to  be  interwoven  in  the  precious  little  fabric. 
One  day  my  attention  was  arrested  by  a  very  unusu- 
al twittering,  and  I  saw  him  circling  round  with  a 
large  downy  feather  in  his  bill.  He  bent  over  the 
unfinished  nest,  and  offered  it  to  his  mate  with  the 
most  graceful  and  loving  air  imaginable  ;  and  when 
she  put  up  her  mouth  to  take  it,  he  poured  forth 
such  a  gush  of  gladsome  sound  !  It  seemed  as  if 
pride  and  affection  had  swelled  his  heart,  till  it  was 
almost  too  big  for  his  little  bosom.  The  whole 
transaction  was  the  prettiest  piece  of  fond  coquetry, 
on  both  sides,  that  it  was  ever  my  good  luck  to 
witness. 

It  was  evident  that  the  father-bird  had  formed 
correct  opinions  on  <  the  woman  question;'  for  dur- 
ing the  process  of  incubation  he  volunteered  .to  per- 
form his  share  of  household  duty.  Three  or  four 
times  a  day  would  he,  with  coaxing  twitterings,  per- 
suade his  patient  mate  to  fly  abroad  for  food ;  and 
the  moment  she  left  the  eggs,  he  would  take  the 
maternal  station,  and  give  a  loud  alarm  -whenever 
cat  or  dog  came  about  the  premises.  He  certainly 
performed  the  office  with  far  Less  ease  and  grace 
than  she  did;  it  was  something  in  the  style  of  an 
old  bachelor  tending  a  babe ;  but  nevertheless  it 
showed  that  his  heart  was  kind,  and  his  principles 
correct,  concerning  division  of  labour.  When  the 
young  ones  came  forth,  he  pursued  the  same  equaliz- 
ing policy,  and  brought  at  least  half  the  food  for  his 
greedy  little  family. 

But  when  they  became  old  enough  to  fly,  the 
veriest  misanthrope  would  have  laughed  to  watch 
their  manoeuvres  I  Such  chirping  and  twittering ! 
Such  diving  dowp  from  the  nestj  and  flying  up  again ! 
Such  wheeling  round  in  circles,  talking  to  the  young 
ones  all  the  while  !  Such  clinging  to  the  sides  of 
the  shed  with  their  sharp  claws,  to  show  the  timid 
little  fledgelings  that  there  was  no  need  of  falling! 
For  three  days  all  this  was  carried  on  with  in- 
creasing activity.  It  was  obviously  an  infant  flying 
school.  But  all  their  talking  and  fussing  was  of  no 
avail.  The  little  downy  things  looked  down,  and 
then  looked  up,  and,  alarmed  at  the  infinity  of  space, 
sunk  down  into  the  nest  again.  At  length  the  pa- 
rents grew  impatient,  and  summoned  their  neigh- 
bours. As  I  was  picking  up  chips  one  day,  I  found 
my  head  encircled  with  a  swarm  of  swallows.  They 
flew  up  to  the  nest,  and  chatted  away  to  the  young 
ones;  they  clung  to  the  walls,  looking  back  to  toll 
how  the  thing  was  done  ;  they  dived,  and  wheeled, 
and  balanced,  and  floated,  in  a  manner  perfectly 
beautiful  to  behold. 

'J'he  pupils  were  evidently  much  excited.  They 
jumped  up  on  the  edge  of  the  nest,  and  twittered, 
and  shook  their  feathers,  and  waved  their  wings  ; 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED, 


20T 


and  then  hopped  back  again,   saying,   'It's  pretty- 
sport,  but  we  can't  do  it.' 

']"'hree  times  their  neighbours  came  in  and  repeat- 
ed their  graceful  lessons.  The  third  time,  two  of 
the  young  birds  gave  a  sudden  plunge  downward, 
and  then  fluttered  and  hopped,  till  they  alighted  on  a 
small  upright  log.  And  oh,  such  praises  as  were 
warbled  by  the  whole  troop !  'J'he  air  was  fdled 
with  their  joy  !  Some  were  Hying  round,  swift  as 
a  ray  of  light ;  others  were  perched  on  the  hoe- 
handle,  and  the  teeth  of  the  rake;  multitudes  clung 
to  the  wall,  after  the  fashion  of  their  pretty  kind  ; 
and  two  were  swinging,  in  most  graceful  style,  on  a 
pendant  hoop.  Never,  while  memory  lasts,  shall  I 
forget  that  swallow  party  !  I  have  frolicked  with 
blessed  Nature  much  and  often ;  but  this,  above 
all  her  gambols,  spoke  into  my  inmost  heart,  like 
the  glad  voices  of  little  children.  That  beautiful 
family  continued  to  be  our  playmates,  until  the  fall- 
ing leaves  gave  token  of  approaching  winter.  For 
some  time,  the  little  ones  came  home  regularly  to 
their  nest  at  night.  I  was  ever  on  the  watch  to 
welcome  them,  and  count  that  none  were  missing. 
A  sculptor  might  have  taken  a  lesson  in  his  ait, 
from  those  little  creatures  perched  so  gracefully  on 
the  edge  of  their  clay-built  cradle,  fast  asleep,  with 
heads  hidden  under  their  folded  wings.  Their  fami- 
liarity was  wonderful.  If  I  hung  my  gown  on  a 
nail,  I  found  a  little  swallow  perched  on  the  sleeve. 
If  I  took  a  nap  in  the  afternoon,  my  waking  eyes 
were  greeted  by  a  swallow  on  the  bed-post ;  in  the 
summer  twilight,  they  flew  about  the  sitting  room 
in  search  of  flies,  and  sometimes  lighted  on  chairs  and 
tables.  I  almost  thought  they  knew  how  much  I 
loved  them.  But  at  last  they  flew  away  to  more 
genial  skies,  with  a  whole  troop  of  relations  and 
neighbours.  It  was  a  deep  pain  to  me,  that  I  should 
never  know  them  from  other  swallows,  and  that 
they  would  have  no  recollection  of  me.  We  had 
lived  so  friendly  together,  that  I  wanted  to  meet 
them  in  another  world,  if  I  could  not  in  this  ;  and  I 
wept,  as  a  child  weeps  at  its  first  grief. 

There  was  somewhat,  too,  in  their  beautiful  life 
of  loving  freedom  which  was  a  reproach  to  me. 
Why  was  not  my  life  as  happy  and  as  graceful  as 
theirs?  Because  they  were  innocent,  confiding,  and 
unconscious,  they  fillfilled  all  the  laws  of  their  being 
without  obstruction. 

'  Inward,  inward  to  thy  heart, 

Kindlj  Nature,  take  me; 
Lovely,  even  as  thou  art, 

Full  of  loving  make  me. 
TAoi/iknowest  nought  of  dead-cold  forms, 

Knowest  nought  of  littleness  ; 
Lifeful  triHh  tity  being  warms, 

Majesty  and  earnestness.' 

The  old  Greeks  observed  a'beautiful  festival,  call- 
ed '  The  Welcome  of  the  Swallows.'  When  these 
social  birds  first  returned  in  the  spring-time,  the 
children  went  about  in  procession,  with  music  and 


garlands ;  receiving  presents  at  every  door,  where 
they  stopped  to  sing  a  welcome  to  the  swallows,  ia 
that  graceful  old  language,  so  melodious  even  in  its 
ruins,  that  the  listener  feels  as  if  the  brilliant  azure 
of  Grecian  skies,  the  breezy  motion  of  their  olive 
groves,  and  the  gush  of  their  silvery  fountains,  had 
all  passed  into  a  monument  of  liquid  and  harmonious 
sounds. 


LUCY. 

BY   WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 

Then  Nature  said,  "  .-V  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 

This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take  ; 

She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  Lady  of  my  own. 

Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  ahd  im|)ulse  :  and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain. 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 
And  her's  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  her's  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  soUnd 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 

While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 

How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  I 

She  died  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene ; 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


208 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


IN  SADNESS. 

Tjy  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

There  is  not  in  this  life  of  ours 

One  bliss  unmixed  with  fears  ; 
The  hope  thnt  wakes  our  deepest  powers 

A  face  of  sadness  wears, 
And  the  dew  that  showers  our  dearest  flowers 

Is  the  bitter  dew  of  tears. 

Fame  waiteth  long,  and  linp;ereth 

Through  weary  nights  and  morns, 
And  evermore  the  shadow  Death 

With  mocking  finger  scorns 
That  underneath  the  laurel-wreath 

Should  be  a  wreath  of  thorns. 

The  laurel-leaves  are  cool  and  green, 

But  the  thorns  are  hot  and  sharp  ; 
Lean  Hunger  grins  and  stares  between 

The  poet  and  his  harp. 
Though  of  Love's  sunny  sheen  his  woof  have  been, 

Grim  Want  thrusts  in  the  warp. 

And  if,  beyond  this  darksome  clime, 

Some  fair  star  Hope  may  see, 
That  keeps  unjarred  the  blissful  chime 

Of  its  golden  infancy, — 
Where  the  harvest-time  of  faith  sublime 

Not  always  is  to  be  ; — 

Yet  would  the  true  soul  rather  choose 

A  home  where  sorrow  is, 
Than  in  a  sated  peace  to  lose 

Its  life's  supremest  bliss, — 
The  rainbow  hues  that  bend  profuse 

O'er  cloudy  spheres  like  this, — 

The  w'ant,  the  sorrow,  and  the  pain, 

That  are  Love's  right  to  cure, — 
The  sunshine  bursting  after  rain, — 

The  gladness  insecure, 
That  makes  us  fain  strong  hearts  to  gain 

To  do  and  to  endure. 

High  natures  must  be  thunder  scarred 

With  many  a  searing  wrong; 
From  mother  Sorrow's  breasts  the  bare". 

Sucks  gifts  of  deepest  song ; 
Nor  all  unmarrcd  with  struggles  hard 

Wax  the  soul's  sinews  strong. 

Dear  Patience,  too,  is  born  of  woe, 

Patience,  that  opes  the  gate 
Wherethrough  the  soul  of  man  must  go 

Up  to  each  nobler  state, 
Whose  voice's  flow  so  meek  and  low 

Smooths  the  bent  brows  of  Fate. 


Though  Fame  be  slow,  yet  Death  is  swift, 

And,  o'er  the  spirit's  eyes. 
Life  after  life  doth  change  and  shift 

With  larger  destinies  : 
As  on  we  drift,  some  wider  rift 

Shows  us  serener  skies. 

And,  though  naught  falleth  to  us  here 

But  gains  the  world  counts  loss. 
Though  all  we  hope  of  wisdom  clear, 

When  climbed  to,  seems  but  dross, 
Yet  all.  though  ne'er  Christ's  faith  they  wear, 

At  least  may  share  his  cross. 


SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT. 

VY  WILLIAM  WORDSW^ORTH. 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sigVit ; 

A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair  ; 

Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time's  brightest,  liveliest  dairn  ; 

A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  AVoman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free. 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  Traveller  between  life  and  death; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned. 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  sonn.ething  of  an  angel-light. 

Who  knows  that  truth  is  strong  next  to  the  Al- 
mighty ;  she  needs  no  policies,  no  stratage.Tis,  no 
licensings,  to  make  her  victorious  I  Though  all  the 
winds  of  doctrine  were  let  loose  to  play  upon  the 
earth,  so  truth  be  in  the  field,  we  injure  her  to  mis- 
doubt her  strength  !  Let  truth  and  falsehood  grap- 
ple ;  who  ever  knew  truth  put  to  the  worse  in  a  free 
and  open  encounter  ? — IMilto.v. 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE  HEARTED. 


THE  OLD  CUMBERLAND  BEGGAR. 

BTt   WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

I  saw  an  aged  Beggar  in  my  walk  ; 

And  he  was  seated,  by  the  highway  side, 

On  a  low  structure  of  rude  masonry 

Built  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  hill,  that  they 

Who  lead  their  horses  down  the  steep  rough  road 

May  thence  remount  at  ease.     The  aged  Man 

Had  placed  his  staff  across  the  broad  smooth  stone 

That  overlays  the  pile;  and,  from  a  bag 

All  white  with  flour,  the  dole  of  village  dames. 

He  drew  his  scraps  and  fragments,  one  by  one  ; 

And  scanned  them  with  a  fixed  and  serious  look 

Of  idle  computation.     In  the  sun. 

Upon  the  second  step  of  that  small  pile, 

Surrounded  by  those  wild  unpeopled  hills, 

He  sat,  and  ate  his  food  in  solitude  : 

And  ever,  scattered  from  his  palsied  hand. 

That,  still  attempting  to  prevent  the  waste. 

Was  baffled  still,  the  crumbs  in  little  showers 

Fell  on  the  ground  ;  and  the  small  mountain  birds, 

Not  venturing  yet  to  peck  their  destined  meal. 

Approached  within  the  length  of  half  his  staff. 

Him  from  my  childhood  have  I  known;  and  then 
He  was  so  old,  he  seems  not  older  now ; 
He  travels  on,  a  solitary  Man, 
So  helpless  in  appearance,  that  for  him 
The  sauntering  Horseman  throws  not  with  a  slack 
And  careless  hand  his  alms  upon  the  groimd, 
But  stops, — that  he  may  safely  lodge  the  coin 
Within  the  old  Man's  hat ;  nor  quits  him  so, 
But  still,  when  he  has  given  his  horse  the  rein, 
Watches  the  aged  Beggar  with  a  look 
Sidelong,  and  half-reverted.     She  who  tends 
The  toll-gate,  when  in  summer  at  her  door 
She  turns  her  wheel,  if  on  the  road  she  sees 
The  aged  Beggar  coming,  quits  her  work, 
And  lifts  the  latch  for  him  that  he  may  pass. 
The  post-boy,  when  his  rattling  wheels  o'ertake 
The  aged  Beggar  in  the  woody  lane, 
Shouts  to  him  from  behind  ;  and,  if  thus  warned 
The  old  man  does  not  change  his  course,  the  boy 
Turns  with  less  noisy  wheels  to  the  roadside, 
And  passes  gently  by,  without  a  curse 
Upon  his  lips,  or  anger  at  his  heart. 

He  travels  on,  a  solitary  man  ; 

His  age  has  no  companion.     On  the  ground 


His  eyes  are  turned,  and  as  he  moves  along, 
They  move  along  the  ground ;   and,  evermore, 
Instead  of  common  and  habitual  sight 
Of  fields  with  rural  works,  of  hill  and  dale, 
And  the  blue  sky,  one  little  span  of  earth 
Is  all  his  prospect.     Thus,  from  day  to  day, 
Bow-bent,  his  eyes  for  ever  on  the  ground. 
He  plies  his  weary  journey  ;  seeing  still. 
And  seldom  knowing  that  he  sees,  some  straw. 
Some  scattered  leaf,  or  marks  which,  in  one  track, 
The  nails  of  cart  or  chariot- wheel  have  left 
Impressed  on  the  white  road, — in  the  same  line. 
At  distance  still  the  same.     Poor  Traveller  ! 
His  staff  trails  with  him;  scarcely  do  his  feet 
Disturb  the  summer  dust ;  he  is  so  still 
In  look  and  motion,  that  the  cottage  curs. 
Ere  he  has  passed  the  door,  will  turn  away, 
Weary  of  barking  at  him.     Boys  and  girls, 
The  vacant  and  the  busy,  maids  and  youths. 
And  urchins  newly  breeched— all  pass  him  by : 
Him  even  the  slow-paced  waggon  leaves  behind. 

But  deem  not  this  man  useless.— Statesmen  ye 
Who  are  so  restless  in  your  wisdom,  ye 
Who  have  a  broom  still  ready  in  your  hands 
To  rid  the  world  of  nuisances  ;  ye  proud, 
Heart-swoln,  while  in  your  pride  ye  contemplate 
Your  talents,  power,  or  wisdom,  deem  him  not 
A  burthen  of  the  earth  !     'Tis  Nature's  law 
That  none,  the  meanest  of  created  things, 
Of  forms  created  the  most  vile  and  brute, 
The  dullest  or  most  noxious,  should  exist 
Divorced  from  good — a  spirit  and  pulse  of  good, 
A  life  and  soul,  to  every  mode  of  being 
Inseparably  linked.     Then  be  assured 
That  least  of  all  can  aught— that  ever  owned 
The  heaven-regarding  eye  and  front  sublime 
Which  man  is  born  to — sink,  howe'er  depressed, 
So  low  as  to  be  scorned  without  a  sin ; 
Without  offence  to  God  cast  out  of  view  ; 
Like  the  dry  remnant  of  a  garden-flower 
Whose  seeds  are  shed,  or  as  an  implement 
Worn  out  and  worthless.     While  from  door  to  door 
This  old  man  creeps,  the  villagers  in  him 
Behold  a  record  which  together  binds 
Past  deeds  and  offices  of  charity. 
Else  unremembered,  and  so  keeps  alive 
The  kindly  mood  in  hearts  which  lapse  of  years, 
And  that  half-wisdom  half  experience  gives. 
Make  slow  to  feel,  and  by  sure  steps  resign 
To  selfishness  and  cold  oblivious  cares. 
27 


210 


V  O  1  (J  E  H    O  F     THE    T  H  U  E  -  II  E  A  irr  E  D . 


Among  the  farms  and  solitary  huts, 
Hamlets  ami  thinly  scattered  villages, 
Where'er  the  ai:ed  Beggar  takes  his  rounds, 
The  mild  necessity  of  use  compels 
To  acts  of  love ;  and  habit  does  the  work 
Of  reason  ;  yet  prepares  that  after  jny 
Which  reason  cherishes.     And  thus  the  soul, 
By  that  sweet  taste  of  pleasure  unpursued, 
Doth  find  herself  insensibly  disposed 
To  virtue  and  true  goodness. 

Some  there  are. 
By  their  good  works  exalted,  lofty  minds 
And  meditative,  authors  of  delight 
And  happiness,  which  to  the  end  of  time 
Will  live,  and  spread,  and  kindle:  even  such  minds 
In  childhood,  from  this  solitary  Being, 
Or  from  like  wanderer,  haply  have  received 
(A  thing  more  precious  far  than  all  that  books 
Or  the  solicitudes  of  love  can  do  !) 
'I  hat  first  mild  touch  of  sympathy  and  thought, 
In  which  they  found  their  kindred  with  the  world 
Where  want  and  sorrow  were.     The  easy  man 
Who  sits  at  his  own  door, — and,  like  the  pear 
'I'hat  overhangs  his  head  from  the  green  wall, 
Feeds  in  the  sunshine;  the  robust  and  young, 
■|  he  prospeious  and  unthinking,  they  who  live 
Sheltered,  and  flourish  in  a  little  grove 
Of  their  own  kindred  ;— all  behold  in  him 
A  silent  monitor,  which  on  their  minds 
iMust  needs  impress  a  transitory  thought 
Of  self  congratulation,  to  the  heart 
Of  each  recalling  his  peculiar  boons, 
His  charters  and  exemptions  ;  and,  perchance. 
Though  he  to  no  one  give  the  fortitude 
And  circumspection  needful  to  preserve 
His  present  blessings,  and  to  husband  up 
The  respite  of  the  season,  he,  at  least. 
And  'tis  no  vulgar  service,  makes  them  ielt. 

Yet  further. Many,  T  believe,  there  are 

Who  live  a  life  of  virtuous  decency. 

Men  who  can  hear  the  Decalogue  and  feel 

No  self-reproach  ;  who  of  the  moral  law 

Established  in  the  land  where  they  abide 

Are  strict  observers  ;  and  not  negligent 

In  acts  of  love  to  those  with  whom  they  dwell. 

Their  kindred,  and  the  children  of  their  blood. 

Prai.se  be  to  surh,  and  to  their  slumbers  peace ! 

— But  af  the  poor  man  ask,  the  abject  poor  ; 

(io,  and  demand  of  him,  if  there  be  here 

In  this  cold  abstinence  from  evil  deeds, 

And  these  inevitable  charities. 

Wherewith  to  satisfy  the  human  soul? 

^'Q — nian  is  dear  to  man  ;   the  poorest  poor 

Lung  for  some  moments  in  a  weary  life 

When  they  can  know  and  feel  that  they  have  been. 

Themselves,  the  fathers  and  the  dealers-out 

Of  some  small  blessings;  have  been  kind  to  such 

As  needed  kindness,  for  this  single  cause. 

That  we  have  all  of  us  one  iiuman  heart. 


— Such  pleasure  is  to  one  kind  Being  known, 

My  neighbour,  when  with  punctual  care,  each  week, 

Duly  as  Friday  comes,  though  pressed  herself 

By  her  own  wants,  she  from  her  store  of  meal 

I  akes  one  unsparing  handful  for  the  scrip 

Of  this  old  Mendicant,  and,  from  her  door 

Returning  with  exhilarated  heart. 

Sits  by  her  fire,  and  builds  her  hope  in  heaven. 

Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head  ! 
And  while  in  that  vast  solitude  to  which 
The  tide  of  things  has  borne  him,  he  appears 
To  breathe  and  live  but  for  himself  alone, 
Unblanied,  uninjured,  let  him  bear  about 
The  good  which  tlie  benignant  law  of  Heaven 
Has  hung  arounil  him  ;  and  while  life  is  his. 
Still  let  him  prompt  the  unlettered  villagers 
To  tender  offices  and  pensive  thoughts. 
—  Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head  ! 
And,  long  as  he  can  wander,  let  him  breathe 
I'he  freshness  of  the  valleys  ;  let  his  blood 
Struggle  with  frosty  air  and  winter  snows  ; 
And  let  the  chartered  wind  that  sweeps  the  heath 
Beat  his  grey  locks  against  his  withered  face. 
Reverence  the  hope  whose  vital  anxiousness 
Gives  the  last  human  interest  to  his  heart. 
May  never  Hotsk,  misnamed  of  Industry, 
Make  him  a  captive  !  for  that  pent-up  din. 
Those  life-consuming  sounds  that  clog  the  aii , 
Be  his  the  natural  silence  of  old  age  I 
Let  him  be  free  of  mountain  solitudes  ; 
And  have  around  him,  whether  heard  or  not, 
'I'he  pleasant  melody  of  woodland  birds. 
Few  are  his  pleasures  :  if  his  eyes  have  now 
Been  doomed  so  long  to  settle  upon  earth 
That  not  without  some  effort  they  behold 
The  countenance  of  the  horizontal  sun, 
Ri.sing  or  setting,  let  the  light  at  least 
Find  a  free  entrance  to  their  languid  orbs. 
And  let  him,  where  and  wlien  he  will,  sit  down 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  on  a  grassy  bank 
Of  highway  side,  and  with  the  little  birds 
Share  his  chance-gathered  meal  :  and,  finally, 
As  in  the  eye  of  Nature  he  has  lived, 
So  in  the  eye  of  Nature  let  him  die! 


A  very  deep  meaning  lies  in  that  notion,  that  a 
man  in  search  of  buried  treasure  must  work  in  utter 
silence;  must  speak  not  a  word,  whatever  appear- 
ance, either  terrific  or  delightful,  may  present  itself. 
And  not  less  significant  is  the  tradition  that  one  who 
is  on  an  adventurous  pilgrimage  to  some  precious 
talisman,  through  the  most  lonesome  momitain-path, 
or  dreary  desert,  must  walk  onward  without  stop- 
ping, nor  look  around  him,  though  fearfully  menac- 
ing, or  sweetly  enticing  voices  follow  his  lootsteps, 
ami  sound  in  his  car. — Goethe. 


VOICES    OF     TH  E  TR  U  E  -  H  E  A  R  T  E  D. 


211 


FROM   "LOWELL'S  CONVERSATIONS." 

The  earliest  poetry  of  all  countries  is  sacred 
poetry,  or  that  in  which  the  idea  of  God  predomi- 
nates and  is  developed.  The  first  effort  at  speech 
which  man's  nature  makes  in  all  tongues  is,  to  pro- 
nounce the  word  "  Father  "  Reverence  is  the 
foundation  of  all  poetry.  From  Reverence  the  spirit 
climbs  on  to  love,  and  thence  beholds  all  things. 
No  matter  in  what  Scythian  fashion  these  first  re- 
cognitions of  something  above  and  beyond  the  soul 
are  uttered,  they  contain  the  germs  of  psalms  and 
prophecies.  Whether,  for  a  while,  the  immortal 
guest  rests  satisfied  with  a  Fetish  or  an  Apollo,  it 
has  already  grasped  the  clew  which  leads  unerringly 
to  the  very  highest  idea.  For  reverence  is  the  most 
keen-eyed  and  exacting  of  all  the  faculties,  and,  if 
there  be  the  least  flaw  in  its  idol,  it  will  kneel  no 
longer.  From  wood  it  rises  to  gold  and  ivory  ;  from 
these,  to  the  3'et  simpler  and  more  majestic  marble  ; 
and,  planting  its  foot  upon  that,  it  leaps  upward  to 
the  infinite  and  invisible.  When  I  assume  reve- 
rence, then,  as  the  very  primal  essence  and  life  of 
poetry,  I  claim  for  it  a  nobler  stirp  than  it  has  been 
the  fashion  to  allow  it.  Beyond  Adam  runs  back  its 
illustrious  genealogy.  It  stood  w'ith  Uriel  in  the 
sun,  and  looked  down  over  the  battlements  of  heaven 
with  the  angelic  guards.  In  short,  it  is  no  other 
than  the  religious  sentiment  itself.  That  is  poetry 
which  makes  sorrow  lovely,  and  joy  solemn  to  us, 
and  reveals  to  us  the  holiness  of  things.  Faith  casts 
herself  upon  her  neck  as  upon  a  sister's.  She  shows 
us  what  glimpses  we  get  of  life's  spiritual  face. 
What  she  looks  on  becomes  miraculous,  though  it 
be  but  the  dust  of  the  way-side  ;  and  miracles  be- 
come but  as. dust  for  their  simpleness.  There  is 
nothing  noble  without  her ;  w'ith  her  there  can  be 
nothing  mean.  What  songs  the  Druids  sang  within 
the  sacred  circuit  of  Stonehenge  we  can  barely  con- 
jecture ;  but  those  forlorn  stones  doubtless  echoed 
with  appeals  to  a  higher  something ;  and  are  not 
even  now  without  their  sanctity,  since  they  chroni- 
cle a  nation's  desire  after  God.  Whether  those  forest- 
priests  worshipped  the  strangely  beautiful  element 
of  fire,  or  if  the  pilgrim  Belief  pitched  her  tent  and 
rested  for  a  night  in  some  ruder  and  bleaker  creed, 
there  we  may  yet  trace  the  light  footprints  of  Poesy, 
as  she  led  her  sister  onward  to  fairer  fields,  and 
streams  flowing  nearer  to  the  oracle  of  God. 

Byron  might  have  made  a  great  poet  As  it  is, 
his  poetry  is  the  record  of  a  struggle  between  his 
good  and  his  baser  nature,  in  which  the  latter  wins. 
The  fall  is  great  in  proportion  to  the  height  from 
which  one  is  hurled.  An  originally  beautiful  spirit 
becomes  the  most  degraded  when  perverted.  It 
would  fain  revenge  itself  upon  that  purity  from 
which  it  is  an  unhappy  and  restless  exile,  and  drowns 
its  remorse  in  the  drunkenness  and  vain  bluster  of 
defiance.  There  is  a  law  of  neutralization  of  forces, 
which  hinders  bodies  from  sinking  beyond  a  certain 


depth  in  the  sea;  but  in  the  ocean  of  baseness,  the 
deeper  we  get  the  easier  the  sinking.  As  for  the 
kindness  which  Milton  and  Burns  felt  for  the  Devil, 
I  am  sure  that  God  thinks  of  him  with  pity  a  thou- 
sand times  to  their  once,  and  the  good  Origin  believ- 
ed him  not  incapable  of  salvation. 

These  simplest  thoughts,  feelings  and  expe- 
riences, that  lie  upon  the  very  surface  of  life,  are 
overlooked  by  all  but  uncommon  eyes.  Most  look 
upon  them  as  mere  weeds.  Yet  a  weed,  to  him  that 
loves  it,  is  a  flower;  and  there  are  times  when  we 
would  not  part  with  a  sprig  of  chickweed  for  a  whole 
continent  of  lilies.  No  man  thinks  his  own  nature 
miraculous,  while  to  his  neighbour  it  may  give  a 
surfeit  of  wonder.  Let  him  go  where  he  will,  he 
can  find  no  heart  so  worth  a  study  as  his  own. 
The  prime  fault  of  modern  poets  is,  that  they  are 
resolved  to  be  peculiar.  They  are  not  content  that 
it  should  come  of  itself,  but  they  must  dig  and  bore 
for  it,  sinking  their  wells  usually  through  the  grave 
of  some  buried  originality,  so  that  if  any  water  rises 
it  is  tainted.  Read  most  volumes  of  poems,  and 
you  are  reminded  of  a  French  bill  of  fare,  where 
every  thing  is  a  In  something  else.  Even  a  potato 
mi  nafurel  is  a  godsend.  When  will  poets  learn 
that  a  grass-blade  of  their  own  raising  is  worth  a 
barrow-load  of  flowers  from  their  neighbour's 
garden  ? 

Ah,  if  we  would  but  pledge  ourselves  to  truth  as 
heartily  as  we  do  to  a  real  or  imaginary  mistress, 
and  think  life  too  short  only  because  it  abridged  our 
time  of  service,  what  a  new  world  we  should  have  ! 
Most  men  pay  their  vows  to  her  in  youth,  and  go 
up  into  the  bustle  of  life,  with  her  kiss  warm  upon 
their  lips,  and  her  blessing  lying  upon  their  hearts 
like  dew;  but  the  world  has  lips  less  chary,  and 
cheaper  benedictions,  and  if  the  broken  trothplight 
with  their  humble  village.mistress  comes  over  them 
sometimes  with  a  pang,  she  knows  how  to  blandish 
away  remorse,  and  persuades  them,  ere  old  age, 
that  their  young  enthusiasm  was  a  folly  and  an  in- 
discretion. 

I  agree  with  you  that  the  body  is  treated  with 
quite  too  much  ceremony  and  respect.  Even  reli- 
gion has  vailed  its  politic  hat  to  it,  till,  like  Chris- 
topher Sly,  it  is  metamorphosed,  in  its  own  estima- 
tion, from  a  tinker  to  a  duke.  Men,  who  would, 
without  compunction,  kick  a  living  beggar,  will  yet 
stand  in  awe  of  his  poor  carcass,  after  all  that  ren- 
dered it  truly  venerable  has  fled  out  of  it.  We 
agree  with  the  old  barbarian  epitaph  which  afiirmcd 
that  the  handfuU  of  dust  had  been  Ninus  ;  as  if  that 
which  convicts  us  of  mortality  and  weakness  could 
at  the  same  time  endow  us  with  our  high  preroga- 
tive of  kingship  over  them.  South,  in  one  of  his 
sermons,  tells  us  of  certain  men  whose  souls  are  of 
no  worth,  but  as  salt  to  keep  their  bodies  from  pu- 
trifying.  I  fear  that  the  soul  is  too  often  regarded 
in  this  sutler  fashion.     Why   should   men   ever  be 


212 


VOICES  OF   THE    T  TxU  E-HE  ART  ED, 


afraid  to  die,  but  that  they  regard  the  spirit  as  secon- 
dary to  that  which  is  but  its  mere  appendage  and 
conveniency,  its  symbol,  its  word,  its  means  of  visi- 
bility? If  the  soul  lose  this  poor  mansion  of  hers 
by  the  sudden  conflagration  of  disease,  or  by  the 
slow  decay  of  age,  is  she  therefore  houseless  and 
shelterless  ?  If  she  cast  away  this  soiled  and  tat- 
tered garment,  is  she  therefore  naked  ?  A  child 
looks  forward  to  his  new  suit,  and  dons  it  joyfully  ; 
we  cling  to  our  rags  and  foulness.  We  should  wel- 
come Death  as  one  who  brings  us  tidings  of  the  find- 
ing of  long-lost  titles  to  a  large  family  estate,  and 
set  out  gladly  to  take  possession,  though,  it  maybe, 
not  without  a  natural  tear  for  the  humbler  home  we 
are  leaving.  Death  always  means  us  a  kindness, 
though  he  has  often  a  gruff  way  of  offering  it.  Even 
if  the  soul  never  returned  from  that  chartless  and 
unmapped  country,  which  I  do  not  believe,  I  would 
take  Sir  John  Davies's  reason  as  a  good  one  : 

♦'  But,  as  Noah's  pigeon,  which  returned  no  more, 
Did  fihow  slie  footing  found,  for  all  the  flood  ; 

So,  when  j;ood  souls,  departed  through  death's  door. 
Come  not  again,  it  shows  their  dwelling  good." 

The  realm  of  Death  seems  an  enemy's  country 
to  most  men,  on  whose  shores  they  are  loathly  driven 
by  stress  of  weather  ;  to  the  wise  man  it  is  the  de- 
sired port  where  he  moors  his  bark  gladly,  as  in 
some  quiet  haven  of  the  Fortunate  Isles ;  it  is  the 
golden  west  into  which  his  sun  sinks,  and,  sinking, 
casts  back  a  glory  upon  the  leaden  cloud-rack  which 
had  darkly  besieged  his  day. 

After  all,  the  body  is  a  more  expert  dialectician 
than  the  soul,  and  buffets  it,  even  to  bewilderment, 
with  the  empty  bladders  of  logic  ;  but  the  soul  can 
retire,  fiom  the  dust  and  turmoil  of  such  conflict,  to 
the  high  tower  of  instinctive  faith,  and  there,  in 
hushed  serenity,  take  comfort  of  the  sympathizing 
stars.  We  look  at  death  through  the  cheap  glazed 
windows  of  the  flesh,  and  believe  him  for  the  mon- 
ster which  the  flawed  and  crooked  glass  presents 
him.  You  say  truly  that  we  have  wasted  time  in 
trying  to  coax  the  body  into  a  faith  in  what,  by  its 
very  nature,  it  is  incapable  of  comprehending. 
Hence,  a  plethoric,  short-winded  kind  of  belief,  that 
can  walk  at  an  easy  pace  over  the  smooth  plain,  but 
loses  breath  at  the  first  sharp  uphill  of  life.  How  idle 
is  it  to  set  a  sensual  bill  of  fare  before  the  soul, 
acting  over  again  the  old  story  of  the  Crane  and  the 
Fox! 

I  know  not  when  we  shall  hear  pure  spiritualism 
preached  by  the  authorized  expounders  of  doctrine. 
These  have  suffered  the  grain  to  mildew,  while  they 
have  been  wrangling  about  the  husks  of  form  ;  and 
the  people  have  stood  by,  hungry  and  half-starved, 
too  intent  on  the  issue  of  the  quarrel  to  be  conscious 
that  they  were  trampling  the  forgotten  and  scattered 
bread  of  life  in  the  mire.  Thank  Heaven,  they 
may  still  pluck  ripe  ears,  of  God's  own  planting  and 
watering,  in  the  fields! 

True  poetry  is  never  out  of  place,  nor  will  a  good 


word  spoken  for  her  ever  fail  of  some  willing  and 
fruitful  ear.  Even  under  our  thin  crust  of  fashion 
and  frivolity  throb  the  undying  fires  of  the  great 
soul  of  man,  the  fountain  and  centre  of  all  poetry, 
and  which  will  one  day  burst  forth  to  wither  like 
grass-blades  the  vain  temples  and  palaces  which 
forms  and  conventionalities  have  heaped  smother- 
ingly  upon  it.  Behind  the  blank  faces  of  the  weak 
and  thoughtless,  I  see,  sometimes  with  a  kind  of 
dread,  this  awful  and  mysterious  presence,  as!  have 
seen  one  of  Allston's  paintings  in  a  ball-room  over- 
looking with  its  serene  and  steadfast  eyes  the  but- 
terfly throng  beneath,  and  seeming  to  gaze,  from 
these  narrow  battlements  of  tiine,  far  out  into  the 
infinite  promise  of  the  future,  beholding  there  the 
free,  erect,  and  perfected  soul. 

No  sincere  desire  of  doing  good  need  make  an 
enemy  of  a  single  human  being  ;  for  that  is  a  capa- 
city in  which  he  is  by  nature  unfitted  to  shine.  It 
may,  and  must,  rouse  opposition  ;  but  that  philan- 
thropy has  surely  a  flaw  in  it,  which  cannot  sympa- 
thize with  the  oppressor  equally  as  with  the  oppress- 
ed. It  is  the  high  and  glorious  vocation  of  Poesy 
as  well  to  make  our  own  daily  life  and  toil  more 
beautiful  and  holy  to  us  by  the  divine  ministerings 
of  love,  as  to  render  us  swift  to  convey  the  same 
blessing  to  our  brother.  Poesy  is  love's  chosen 
apostle,  and  the  very  almoner  of  God.  She  is  the 
the  home  of  the  outcast,  and  the  wealth  of  the  needy. 
For  her  the  hut  becomes  a  palace,  whose  halls  are 
guarded  by  the  gods  of  Phidias,  and  kept  peaceful 
by  the  maid-mothers  of  Raphael.  She  loves  better 
the  poor  wanderer  whose  bare  feet  know  by  heart 
all  the  freezing  stones  of  the  pavement,  than  the 
delicate  maiden  for  whose  dainty  soles  Brussels  and 
Turkey  have  been  over-careful ;  and  I  doubt  not 
but  some  remembered  scrap  of  childish  song  hath 
often  been  a  truer  alms  than  all  the  benevolent  soci- 
eties could  give.  She  is  the  best  missionary,  know- 
ing when  she  may  knock  at  the  door  of  the  most 
curmudgeonly  hearts,  without  being  turned  away 
unheard.  The  omnipresence  of  her  spirit  is  beauti- 
fully and  touchingly  expressed  in  "  The  Poet,"  one 
of  the  divisions  of  a  little  volume  of  poems  by  Cor- 
nelius Matthews.  Were  the  whole  book  as  simple 
in  thought  and  diction  as  the  most  of  this  particular 
poem,  I  know  few  modern  volumes  that  would  equal 
it.  Let  me  read  you  the  passage  I  alluded  to.  You 
will  see  that  the  poor  slave  is  not  forgotten. 

"  There  sits  not  on  the  wilderness's  edge. 

In  the  dusk  lodges  of  the  wintry  North, 
Nor  couches  in  the  rice-lichis  sliniv  sedge, 

Nor  on  the  cold,  wide  waters  ventures  forth, — 
Who  waits  not.  in  the  pauses  of  his  toil, 

With  hope  that  spirits  in  the  air  ninv  sing  ; 
Who  upward  turns  luit,  at  propitious  times, 

Urenthless,  his  silent  features  listening, 
In  desert  and  in  lodge,  on  marsh  and  main. 
To  feed  his  hungry-  heart  and  conquer  pain." 

The  love  of  the  beautiful  and  triio,  like  the  dew- 
drop  in  the  heart  of  the  crystal,  remains  forever 
clear  and  liquid  in  the  inmost  shrine  of  man's  being. 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


though  all  the  rest  be  turned  to  stone  by  sorrow  and 
degradation.  The  angel,  who  has  once  come  down 
into  the  soul,  will  not  be  driven  thence  by  any  sin 
or  baseness  even,  much  less  by  any  undeserved 
oppression  or  wrong.  At  the  soul's  gate  sits  she 
silently,  with  folded  hands  and  downcast  eyes  ;  but, 
at  the  least  touch  of  nobleness,  those  patient  orbs 
are  serenely  uplifted,  and  the  whole  spirit  is  light- 
ened with  their  prayerful  lustre.  Over  all  life  broods 
Poosy,  like  the  calm,  blue  sky  with  its  motherly, 
rebuking  face.  She  is  the  true  preacherof  the  Word, 
and  when,  in  time  of  danger  and  trouble,  the  es- 
tablished shepherds  have  cast  down  their  crooks  and 
fled,  she  tenderly  careth  for  the  flock.  On  her  calm 
and  fearless  heart  rests  weary  freedom,  when  all 
the  world  have  driven  her  from  the  door  with  scoffs 
and  mockings.  From  her  white  breasts  flows  the 
strong  milk  which  nurses  our  heroes  and  martyrs  ; 
and  she  blunts  the  sharp  tooth  of  the  fire,  makes  the 
axe  edgeless,  and  dignifies  the  pillory  or  the  gal- 
lows. She  is  the  great  reformer,  and,  where  the 
love  of  her  is  strong  and  healthy,  wickedness  and 
wrong  cannot  long  prevail.  The  more  this  love  is  cul- 
tivated and  refined,  the  more  do  men  strive  to  make 
their  outward  lives  rhythmical  and  harmonious, 
that  they  may  accord  with  that  inward  and  domi- 
nant rhythm  by  whose  key  the  composition  of  all 
noble  and  worthy  deeds  is  guided.  To  make  one 
object,  in  outward  or  inward  nature,  more  holy  to  a 
single  heart  is  reward  enough  for  a  life  ;  for,  the 
more  sympathies  we  gain  or  awaken  for  what  is 
beautiful,  by  so  much  deeper  will  be  our  sympathy 
for  that  which  is  most  beautiful, — the  human  soul. 
Love  never  contracts  its  circles  :  they  widen  by  as 
fixed  and  sure  a  law  as  those  around  a  pebble  cast 
into  still  water.  The  angel  of  love,  when,  full  of 
sorrow,  he  followed  the  first  exiles,  behind  whom 
the  gates  of  Paradise  shut  with  that  mournful  clang, 
of  which  some  faint  echo  has  lingered  in  the  hearts 
of  all  their  offspring,  unwittingly  snapped  off"  and 
brought  away  in  his  hand  the  seed-pod  of  one  of  the 
never-fading  flowers  which  grew  there.  Into  all 
dreary  and  desolate  places  fell  some  of  its  blessed 
kernels;  they  asked  but  little  soil  to  root  them- 
selves in,  and  in  this  narrow  patch  of  our  poor  clay 
they  sprang  most  quickly  and  sturdily.  Gladly  they 
grew,  and  from  them  all  time  has  been  sown  with 
whatever  gives  a  higher  hope  to  the  soul,  or  makes 
life  nobler  and  more  godlike  ;  while,  from  the  over- 
arching sky  of  poesy,  sweet  dew  forever  falls,  to 
nurse  and  keep  them  green  and  fresh  from  the  world's 
dust. 

God's  livery  is  a  very  plain  one ;  but  its  wearers 
have  good  reason  to  be  content.  If  it  have  not  so 
much  gold-lace  about  it  as  Satan's,  it  keeps  out  foul 
weather  better,  and  is  besides  a  great  deal  cheaper. 

Never  was  falser  doctrine  preached  than  that  love's 
chief  delight  and  satisfaction  lies  in  the  pursuit  of 
its  object,  which  won,  the  charm  is  already  flutter- 


ing its  wings  to  seek  some  fairer  hej|fetfc**This  is 
true  only  when  love  has  been  but  one  of  uie  thou- 
sand vizards  of  selfishness,  when  we  have  loved  our- 
selves in  the  beautiful  spirit  we  have  knelt  to  ;  that 
is,  when  we  have  merely  loved  the  delight  we  felt 
in  loving.  Then  it  is  that  the  cup  we  so  thirsted 
after  tastes  bitter  or  insipid,  and  we  fling  it  down 
undrunk.  Did  we  empty  it,  we  should  find  that  it 
was  the  poor,  muddy  dregs  of  self  at  the  bottom, 
which  made  our  gorge  rise.  If  it  be  God  whom  we 
love  in  loving  our  elected  one,  then  shall  the  bright 
halo  of  her  spirit  expand  itself  over  all  existence, 
till  every  human  face  we  look  upon  shall  share  in 
its  transfiguration,  and  the  old  forgotten  traces  of 
brotherhood  be  lit  up  by  it ;  and  our  love,  instead 
of  pining  discomforted.  Shall  be  lured  upward  and 
upward  by  low,  angelical  voices,  which  recede  be- 
fore it  forever,  as  it  mounts  from  brightening  sum- 
mit to  summit  on  the  delectable  mountains  of  aspi- 
rations and  resolve  and  deed. 

If  any  have  aught  worth  hearing  to  say,  let  them 
say  it,  be  they  men  or  women.  We  have  more 
than  enough  prating  by  those  who  have  nothing  to 
tell  us.  I  never  heard  that  the  Quaker  women  were 
the  worse  for  preaching,  or  the  men  for  listening  to 
them.  If  we  pardon  such  exhibitions  as  those  of  the 
dancing-females  on  the  stage,  surely  our  prudery 
need  not  bristle  in  such  a  hedgehog  fashion  because 
a  woman  in  the  chaste  garb  of  the  Friends  dares  to 
plead  in  public  for  the  downtrodden  cause  of  justice 
and  freedom.  Or  perhaps  it  is  more  modest  and 
maidenly  for  a  woman  to  expose  her  body  in  public 
than  her  soul  ?  If  we  listen  and  applaud,  while,  as 
Coleridge  says, 

"  Heaves  the  proud  harlot  her  distended  breast 
la  intricacies  of  laborious  song," 

must  we  esteem  it  derogatory  to  our  sense  of  refine- 
ment to  drink  from  the  fresh  brook  of  a  true  woman's 
voice,  as  it  gushes  up  from  a  heart  throbbing  only 
with  tenderness  for  our  neighbour  fallen  among 
thieves?  Here  in  Massachusetts  we  burn  Popish 
nunneries,  but  we  maintain  a  whole  system  of  Pro- 
testant ones.  If  a  woman  is  to  be  an  Amazon,  all 
the  cloisters  in  the  world  will  not  starve  or  com- 
press her  into  a  Cordelia.  There  is  no  sex  in  noble 
thoughts,  and  deeds  agreeing  with  them  ;  and  such 
recruits  do  equally  good  service  in  the  army  of  truth, 
whether  they  are  brought  in  by  women  or  men. 
Out  on  our  Janus-faced  virtue,  with  its  one  front 
looking  smilingly  to  the  stage,  and  its  other  with 
shame-shut  eyes  turned  frownlngly  upon  the  Anti- 
slavery  Convention  !  If  other  reapers  be  wanting, 
let  women  go  forth  into  the  harvest-field  of  God  and 
bind  the  ripe  shocks  of  grain  ;  the  complexion  of 
their  souls  shall  not  be  tanned  or  weather-stained, 
for  the  sun  that  shines  there  only  makes  the  fairer 
and  whiter  all  that  it  looks  upon.  Whatever  is  in 
its  place  is  in  the  highest  place;  whatever  is  right 
is  graceful,  noble,  expedient ;  and  the  universal  hiss 


214 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


of  the  world  shall  fall  upon  it  as  a  benediction,  and 
go  up  to  the  ear  of  God  as  the  most  moving  prayer 
in  its  behalf.  If  a  woman  he  truly  chaste,  that 
chastity  shall  surround  her.  in  speaking  to  a  public 
assembly,  with  a  ring  of  protecting  and  rebuking 
light,  and  make  the  exposed  rostrum  as  private  as 
an  oratory;  if  immodest,  there  is  that  in  her  which 
can  turn  the  very  house  of  God  into  a  brothel. 


STANZAS. 

BY  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

"  The  despotism  which  oiir^alhcrs  could  not  bear  in  their 
native  country  is  expiring,  and  the  sword  of  justice  in  her 
reformed  liands  has  applied  its  exterminating  edge  to  slavery. 
Sliall  llie  United  .States— the  free  United  States,  wliich  could 
not  liear  the  bonds  of  a  kin?,  cradle  the  bondage  which  a  king 
is  abolishing  ?  Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free  tlian  a  Monar- 
chy ?  Shall  we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoyancy  nf  our  nianliood,  be 
less  em-rgi-iic  in  righteousness  than 'a  kingdom  in  its  age  ?" — 
i)r.  fuUen'n  Atldicss. 

"Genius  of  America  !— Spirit  of  our  free  institutions!  — 
where  art  tliou  ?  How  art  thou  fallen,  O  Lucifer  !  son  of  the 
mornin"— how  art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven  !  Hell  from  be- 
neath is  moved  for  tliee,  to  meet  thee  at  thy  coming  !  Tlie 
kinns  of  the  eartli  cry  out  to  thee,  Alia  !  Aha  !— aET  thou 
BECOME  LiKR  v^TO  vs'}"—Speech  of  Sainucl  J.  May. 

Our  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 

Slaves— in  a  land  of  light  and  law  ! 
Slaves— crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  roU'd  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war  ! 
A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood — 

A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell — 
By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's  well ! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallow'd  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot. 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men  ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there — 

The  falling  lash— the  fetter's  clank ! 
S/a«es— SLAVES  are  breathing  in  that  air, 

Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank  ! 

What,  ho  ! — our  countrymen  in  chains  ! 

The  whip  on  woman's  shrinking  flesh! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains, 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and  fresh ! 
What !  mothers  from  their  children  riven ! 

What '  God's  own  image  bought  and  sold  ! 
Americans  to  market  driven, 

And  barter'd  as  the  brute  for  gold  ! 

Speak  !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us,  whose  fathers  scorn'd  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light — 
Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong, 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundcr'd  Right? 


What !  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death. 

Strikes  for  his  freedom,  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning. 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning? 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vcndome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's  wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance. 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall  the  slave,  beneath  our  eye. 

Clank  o'er  nur  fields  his  hateful  chain? 
And  toss  his  fetter'd  arms  on  high. 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain  ? 

Oh,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave? 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave  ? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosom'd  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride. 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain. 

From  fetter'd  soul  and  limb,  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free. 
From  "  farthest  Ind"  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea  ? 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings. 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse? 

Go— let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat ! 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote — 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turban'd  Turk,  and  fiery  Russ  : 
"  Go,  loose  your  fetter'd  slaves  at  home, 

Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us  !" 

Just  God  !   and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The  Christian's  scorn — the  Heathen's  mirth- 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by- word  of  a  mocking  Earth? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear  ? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part. 

From  gray-beard  eld  to  fiery  youth. 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  '. 
Up — while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing  I 
Up — while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing ! 


VOICES  OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


215 


Oh !   rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth — 

The  gather'd  wrath  of  God  and  man — 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 
Up — up— why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death  ? 

Up  now  for  Freedom  ! — not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain — the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  : 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 
And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer. 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven  ! 


TilE  CONTRAST. 

BY    JAMES    KIJSSELL    LOWELL. 

Thy  love  thou  sentest  oft  to  me, 
And  still,  as  oft,  I  thrust  it  back  ; 

Thy  messenger  I  could  not  see 

In  those  who  every  thing  did  lack, 
The  poor,  the  outcast,  and  the  black. 

Pride  held  his  hand  before  mine  eyes. 

The  world  with  flattery  stuffed  mine  ears  ; 

I  looked  to  see  a  monarch's  guise, 

Nor  dreamed  thy  love  would  knock  for  years. 
Poor,  naked,  fettered,  full  of  tears. 

Yet,  when  I  sent  my  love  to  thee. 
Thou  with  a  smile  didst  take  it  in. 

And  entertained  it  royally 

Though  grimed  with  earth,  with  hunger  thin. 
And  leprous  with  the  taint  of  sin. 

Now,  every  day  thy  love  I  meet 
As  o'er  the  earth  it  wanders  wide, 

With  weary  step  and  bleeding  feet, 
Still  knocking  at  the  heart  of  pride. 
And  offering  grace,  though  still  denied. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

BY   HEXUT    W.    I,0NGFKLT,0W. 

This  is  the  Ar.scnal.     From   floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms  ; 

But  from  their  silent  |)ipes  no  anthem  pealing 
S>lartles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

."Vh  !   what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  atjd  dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  thoi^e  swift  keys  I 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  sym[)honies! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 

The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 
Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer. 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's  song, 

And  loud,  ainid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's  skin  ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns  ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices. 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  1 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  witli  terror, 
Were  half  the   wealth,    bestowed    on    camps    and 
courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts  : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred  ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease  ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say,  "  Peace  !" 

Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies  ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


21G 


VOICES   OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


THE  ECONOMY  OF  SLAVERY. 

BY  LYDIA  MAUIA    CHILD. 

On  the  Battery,  the  other  day,  I  met  an  acquaint- 
ance from  New  England.  He  was  on  his  way  from 
Virginia,  where  he  had  been  making  contracts  for 
wood  at  a  dollar  an  acre.  In  the  true  spirit  of  Yan- 
kee enterprise,  he  buys  up  the  produce  of  waste 
lands,  fells  ihe  trees,  ships  them  to  New  York  and 
Boston,  and  finds  the  trade  profitable. 

A  large  emigration  of  substantial  farmers  from 
Orange,  Duchess,  and  Columbia  counties,  in  this 
State"  have,  within  a  few  years,  enagrated  to  the 
counties  of  Loudon,  Culpepper  and  Fairfax,  in  Vir- 
ginia. They  bought  up  the  worn-out  plantations 
for  a  mere  song,  and,  by  judicious  application  of 
free  labour,  they  are  «  redeeming  the  waste  places, 
and  making  the  wilderness  blossom  as  the  rose." 
A  traveller  recently  told  me  that  the  farms  culti- 
vated by  Quakers,  who  employ  no  slaves,  formed 
•such  a  striking  contrast  to  other  portions  of  Vir- 
ginia, that  they  seemed  almost  like  oases  in  the 
desert. 

What  a  lesson  this  teaches  concerning  the  compa- 
rative effect  of  slave  labour  and  free  labour,  on  the 
prosperity  of  a  State!  It  seems  strange,  indeed, 
that  enlightened  self-interest  does  not  banish  the 
accursed  system  from  the  world ;  for  political  eco- 
nomists ought  to  see  that  "  it  is  worse  than  a  crime, 
it  is  a  blunder,"  as  Napoleon  once  said  of  some 
error  in  state  policy.  But  the  fact  is,  self-interest 
never  can  be  very  much  enlightened.  All  true 
vision  derives  its  clearness  from  the  heart. 

If  ever  this  truth  were  legibly  written  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,  it  is  inscribed  on  Virginia.  No  State 
in  the  Union  has  superior  natural  advantages.  Look 
at  its  spacious  bays,  its  broad  and  beautiful  rivers, 
traversing  the  country  in  every  direction  ;  its  ma- 
jestic forests,  its  grand  and  picturesque  mountains, 
its  lovely  and  fertile  valleys,  and  the  abundance  of 
its  mineral  wealth.  Words  could  hardly  be  found 
enthusiastic  enough  to  express  the  admiration  of 
Europeans,  who  first  visited  this  magnificent  region. 
Some  say  her  name  was  given.  « because  the  coun- 
try seemed  to  retain  the  virgin  plenty  and  purity  of 
the  first  creation,  and  the  people  their  primitive  in- 
nocency  of  life  and  manners."  Waller  describes  it 
thus  : 

"  So  sweet  the  air,  bo  moderate  the  clime, 
None  sicltly  lives,  or  dies  before  liis  time. 
Heaven  sure  has  kept  this  spot  of  earth  uncursl, 
To  show  how  all  things  were  created  first." 


Alas,  that  the  shores  of  that  beautiful  State  should 
become  the  Guinea  coast  of  the  New  World!— our 
central  station  of  slavery  and  the  slave  trade !  Of 
the  effects  produced,  we  need  not  question  abolition- 
ists, for  we  learn  them  from  the  lips  of  her  own 
sons.     John  Randolph  said,  years  ago,  that  he  <■  ex- 


pected soon  to  see  the  slaves  of  Virginia  advertising 
for  runaway  masters."     Washington,  in  a  letter  to 
Sir  John  Sinclair,  describes  the  land  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Mount  Vernon  as  exhausted  and  misera- 
ble.    He  alludes  to  the  fact,  that  the  price  of  land 
in  Pennsylvania  and  the  free  States,  then  averaged 
more  than  twice  as  much  as  land  in  Virginia:  '^ be- 
cause,"  says  he,  "there  are  in  Pennsylvania  laws 
for  the  gradual  abolition  of  slavery    and   because 
foreign  emigrants  are  more  inclined  to  settle  in  free 
States."     Mr.    Custis   says,  "Of  the  multitude  of 
foreigners  who  daily  seek  an  asylum  and  home  in 
the  empire  of  liberty,  how  many  turn  their  steps  to 
the  region  of  the  slave  ?     None.     There  is  a  ma- 
laria in  the  atmosphere  of  those  regions,  which  the 
new  comer  shuns,  as  being  deleterious  to  his  views 
and  habits.     See  the  wide-spreading  rain,  which  the 
avarice  of  our  ancestral  government  has  produced  in 
the  South,   as  witnessed  in  a  sparse  population  of 
freemen,    deserterl   habitations    and   fields   without 
culture.      Strange   to   tell,  even   the   wolf,    driven 
back    long   since   by   the   approach   of   man,    now 
returns,  after  the  lapse  of  a  hundred  years,  to  howl 
over  the  desolations  of  slavery." 

The  allusion  to  the  wolf,  is  no  figure  of  speech. 
Wild  beasts  have  returned  to  extensive  districts  of 
Virginia,  once  inhabited  and  cultivated. 

Some  eighteen  years  ago,  when  I  lived  in  the 
dream-land  of  romantic  youth,  and  thought  nothing 
of  slavery,  or  any  other  evils  that  infest  the  social 
system,  an  intelligent  young  lady  from  the  South 
told  me  an  adventure,  which  made  a  strong  impres- 
sion on  my  imagination.  She  was  travelling  with 
her  brother  in  the  interior  of  eastern  Virginia. 
Marks  of  diminishing  prosperity  everywhere  met 
their  view.  One  day,  they  entered  upon  a  region 
which  seemed  entirely  deserted.  Here  and  there 
some  elegant  villa  indicated  the  former  presence  of 
wealth;  but  piazzas  had  fallen,  and  front  doors  had 
either  dropped,  or  hung  suspended  upon  one  hinge. 
Here  and  there  a  stray  garden-flower  peeped  forth, 
amid  the  choking  wilderness  of  weeds ;  and  vines 
once  carefully  trained  on  lattices,  spread  over  the 
ground  in  tangled  confusion.  Nothing  disturbed  the 
silence,  save  the  twittering  of  some  startled  bird,  or 
the  hoot  and  scream  of  gloomy  wood  creatures, 
scared  by  the  unusual  noise  of  travellers. 

At  last,  they  came  to  a  church,  through  the  roof 
of  which  a  tree,  rooted  in  the  central  aisle  beneath, 
sent  lip  its  verdant  branches  into  the  sunlight  above. 
Leaving  their  horse  to  browse  on  the  grass- grown 
road,  they  passed  into  the  building,  to  examine  the 
interior.  Their  entrance  startled  innumerable  birds 
,and  bats  which  flew  circling  round  their  heads,  and 
through  the  broken  windows.  The  pews  had  coats- 
of-arms  blazoned  on  the  door-pannels,  but  birds  had 
built  their  nests  in  the  corners,  and  grass  had  grown 
up  through  the  chinks  of  the  floor.  The  handsome 
trimmings  of  the  pulpit  were  so  covered  with  dust. 


VOICES   OF   THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


217 


as  to  leave  the  original  colour  extremely  doubtful. 
On  the  cushion  lay  a  gilt-edged  Bible,  still  open 
probably  at  the  place  vviiere  religious  lessons  had 
last  been  read. 

I  have  before  my  mind's  eye  a  vivid  picture  of 
that  lonely  church,  standing  in  the  silence  of  the 
forest.  In  some  moods  of  mind,  how  pleasant  it 
would  be  to  spend  the  Sabbath  there  alone,  listening 
to  the  insects  singing  their  prayers,  or  to  the  plain- 
tive voice  of  the  ring-dove,  coming  up  froai  the  in- 
most heart  of  the  shaded  forest, 

"  Whose  deep,  low  noti>,  is  liUi'  a  senile  wife, 
A  poor,  a  pensive,  jet  a  lia|)p_v  one, 
Stealing,  when  daylight's  coiiunou  tasks  are  done, 
An  hour  for  mother's  work  ;  and  singing  low. 
While  her  tired  husband  and  her  children  sleep." 

In  the  stillness  of  Nature  there  is  ever  something 
sacred;  for  she  pleadeth  tenderly  with  man  that  he 
will  live  no  more  at  discord  with  her;  and,  like  the 
eloquent  dumb  boy,  she  ever  carryeth  "  great  names 
for  God  in  her  heart." 

"  'Neath  cloistered  boughs,  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth, 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air. 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prajer." 

I  can  never  forget  that  adventure  in  the  wilder- 
ness. There  is  something  sadly  impressive  in  such 
complete  desolation,  where  life  has  once  been  busy 
and  gay — and  where  human  pride  has  inscribed  its 
transient  history  with  the  mouldering  insignia  of 
jank  and  wealth. 

The  rapid  ruin  and  the  unbroken  stillness  seemed 
so  much  like  a  work  of  enchantment,  that  the  tra- 
vellers named  the  place  The  Hamlet  of  the  Seven 
Sleepers.  At  the  next  inhabited  village,  they  ob- 
tained a  brief  outline  of  its  history.  It  had  been 
originally  settled  by  wealthy  families,  with  large 
plantations  and  numerous  slaves.  They  were  Vir- 
ginian gentlemen  of  the  olden  school,  and  would 
have  felt  themselves  disgraced  by  the  modern  busi- 
ness of  breeding  slaves  for  market.  In  fact,  strong 
family  pride  made  them  extremely  averse  to  sell 
any  slave  that  had  belonged  to  their  ancestors.  So 
the  slaves  multiplied  on  their  hands,  and  it  soon 
took  "all  their  corn  to  feed  their  hogs,  and  all  their 
hogs  to  feed  their  negroes."  Matters  grew  worse 
and  worse  with  these  old  families.  The  strong  soil 
was  at  last  exhausted  by  the  miserable  system  of 
slavery,  and  would  no  longer  yield  its  increase. 
What  could  these  aristocratic  gentlemen  do  for  their 
sons,  under  such  circumstances?  Plantations  must 
be  bought  for  them  in  the  far  Southwest,  and  they 
must  disperse,  with  their  trains  of  human  cattle,  to 
blight  other  new  and  fertile  regions.  There  is  an 
old  superstition,  that  no  grass  grows  where  the  devil 
has  danced ;  and  the  effects  of  slavery  show  that  this 
28 


tradition,  like  most  others,  is  born  of  truth.  It  is 
not,  as  some  suppose,  a  special  vengeance  on  the 
wicked  system  ;  it  is  a  simple  result  of  the  universal 
and  intimate  relation  between  spirit  and  matter. 
Freedom  writes  itself  on  the  earth  in  growth  and 
beauty;  oppression,  in  dj-eariness  and  decay.  1/  we 
attempt  to  trace  this  effect  analytically,  we  shall  find 
that  it  originates  in  landholders  too  proud  to  work, 
in  labourers  deprived  of  healtlil'ul  motive,  in  the  in- 
evitable intermediate  class  of  overseers,  who  have 
no  interest  in  the  soil  or  the  labourers  ;  but  whose 
pay  depends  on  the  forced  product  they  can  extort 
from  both.  Mr.  Faulkner,  of  Virginia,  has  stated 
the  case  impressively:  "Compare  the  condition  of 
the  slaveholding  portion  of  this  commonwealth, 
barren,  desolate,  and  seared  as  it  were  by  the 
avenging  hand  of  Heaven,  with  the  description  which 
we  have  of  this  same  country  from  those  who  first 
broke  its  soil.  To  what  is  this  change  ascribablel 
Alone  to  the  blasting  and  withering  effects  of 
slavery.  To  that  vice  in  the  organization  of  society, 
by  which  one-half  its  inhabitants  are  arrayed  in  in- 
terest and  feeling  against  the  other  half;  to  that  con- 
dition of  things,  in  which  half  a  million  of  your 
population  can  feel  no  sympathy  with  society,  in 
the  prosperity  of  which  they  are  forbidden  to 
participate,  and  no  attachment  to  a  government 
at  whose  hands  they  receive  nothing  but  in- 
justice." 

Dr.  Meade,  of  Virginia,  in  the  records  of  an  o^cial 
tour  through  the  State,  speaks  of  great  numbers  of 
churches  fallen  absolutely  into  ruin,  from  the  gra- 
dual impoverishment  of  surrounding  estates,  and  the 
consequent  dispersion  of  the  population. 

Pope's  Creek  Church,  where  General  Washington 
was  baptized,  fell  into  such  complete  decay,  that  it 
was  a  resort  for  beasts  and  birds.  It  was  set  on  fire 
a  few  years  ago,  lest  the  falling  in  of  the  roof  should 
kill  the  cattle,  accustomed  to  seek  shade  and  shelter 
there. 

Yet  in  view  of  these  facts,  statesmen,  for  tempo- 
rary purposes,  are  willing  to  spread  over  the  rich 
prairies  of  Texas  this  devastating  system,  to  devour, 
like  the  locusts  of  Egypt,  every  green  thing  in  its 
path. 

And  while  we  are  thus  wilfully  perpetuating  and 
extending  this  terrible  evil,  priests  and  politicians 
are  not  ashamed  to  say  that  it  must  be  so,  because 
the  system  was  entailed  upon  us  by  "  the  avarice  of 
our  ancestral  government."  Would  any  other  evil, 
any  evil  which  we  ourselves  did  not  choose,  be  to- 
lerated among  us,  because  it  was  a  legacy  from 
Great  Britain  1  I  never  hear  this  weak  apology 
offered,  without  thinking  of  the  answer  made  to 
it  by  the  eloquent  George  Thompson :  "  Yes, 
charge  the  guilt  upon  England;  but,  as  you  have 
copied  England  in  her  sin,  copy  her  in  her  repent- 
ance," 


218 


VOICES    OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


HEART-LEAP  WELL. 

BY    WILLIAM     WOKDSWOHTU. 

Heart-Leap  Well  is  a  small  spring  of  water,  about  five  miles 
from  Richmond  in  Yorkshire,  and  near  the  side  of  the  road 
that  leads  from  Richmond  to  Aslirigi;.  lis  name  \*  derived 
from  a  reinarkulile  Chase,  the  raeniorv  of  which  is  prenc-rved 
by  the  monuments  spoken  of  in  tlie  second  I'lirt  of  the  follow- 
ing Poem.wliich  monuments  do  now  exist  as  I  have  there  de- 
scribed them. 

The  Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley  Moor 
With  the  slow  motion  of  a  summer's  cloud  ; 
And  now  as  he  approached  a  vassal's  door, 
"  Bring  forth  another  horse  !''  be  cried  aloud. 

"  Another  horse  !" — That  shout  the  vassal  heard, 
And  saddled   bis  best  Steed,  a  comely  grey  ; 
Sir  Walter  mounted  bim  ;   ho  was  the  third 
Which  he  bad  mounted  on  that  glorious  day. 

Joy  s[)arkli'd  in  the  prancing  courser's  eyes; 
'J"be  horse  and  horseman  arc  a  happy  pair; 
Uut,  though  Sir  Walter  like  a  falcon  flies, 
There  is  a  doleful  silence  in  the  air. 

A  rout  this  morning  left  Sir  Walter's  Hall, 
That  as  they  galloped  made  the  echoes  roar  ; 
But  horse  and  man  are  vanished,  one  and  all; 
Such  race,  I  think,  was  never  seen  before. 

Sir  Walter,  restless  as  a  veering  wind, 
Calls  to"the  few  tired  dogs  that  yet  remain  : 
Blanch,  Swift,  and  Music,  noblest  of  their  kind. 
Follow,  and  up  the  weary  mountain  strain. 

The  knight  hallooed,  he  cheered  and  chid  them  on 
With  suppliant  gestures  and  upbraidings  stern  ; 
But  breath  and  eyesight  fail ;  and,  one  by  one. 
The  dogs  are  scattered  among  the  mountain  fern. 

Where  is  the  throng,  the  tumult  of  the  race  1 
The  bugles  that  so  joyfully  were  blown  1 
— This  chase  it  looks  not  like  an  earthly  chase; 
Sir  Walter  and  the  Hart  are  left  alone. 

The  poor  Hart  toils  along  the  mountain  side; 
I  will  not  stop  to  tell  how  far  he  fled, 
Nor  will  I  mention  by  what  death  he  died  ; 
But  now  the  Knight  beholds  him  lyin;;  dead. 

Dismounting,  then,  he  leaned  against  a  thnrn  ; 
He  had  no  follower,  dog,  nor  man,  nor  boy  : 
He  neither  cracked  his  whip,  nor  blew  his  horn. 
But  gazed  upon  the  spoil  with  silent  joy. 

Close  to  the  thorn  on  which  Sir  Walter  leaned. 
Stood  his  dumb  partner  in  this  glorious  feat ; 
Weak  as  a  lamb  the  hour  that  it  is  yrancd  ; 
And  white  with  foam  as  if  with  cleaving  sleet. 

Upon  his  side  the  Hart  was  lying  stretched  : 

His  nostril  touched  a  spring  beticalh  a  hill. 

And  with  the  last  deep  groan  his  breath  had  fetched 

The  waters  of  the  spring  were  trembling  still. 


And  now,  too  happy  for  repose  or  rest, 

(Never  had  living  man  such  joyful  lot  !) 

Sir  Waller  walked  all  round,  north,  south,  and  west, 

And  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  darling  spot. 

And  climbing  up  that  hill — (it  was  at  least 
Nine  roods  of  sheer  ascent)  J>ir  Walter  found 
Three  several  hoof-marks  which  the  hunted  Beast 
Had  left  imprinted  on  the  grassy  ground. 

Sir  Walter  wiped  his  face,  and  cried,  «  Till  now 
Such  sight  was  never  seen  by  human  eyes: 
Three  leaps  have  borne  him  from  this  lofty  brow, 
Down  to  the  weary  fountain  where  he  lies. 

I'll  build  a  pleasure-house  upon  this  spot. 
And  a  small  arbour,  made  for  rural  joy  ; 
'Twill  be  the  traveller's  shed,  the  pilgrim's  cot, 
A  place  of  love  for  damsels  that  are  coy. 

A  cunning  artist  will  I  have  to  frame 

A  basin  for  that  fountain  in  the  dill ! 

And  they  who  do  make  nuntion  of  the  same. 

From  this  day  forth,  shall  call  it  Heaut-leap  Well. 

And,  gallant  Stag!  to  make  thy  praises  known, 
Another  monument  shall  here  be  raised  ; 
Three  several  pillars,  each  a  rough-hewn  stone, 
And  planted  where  thy  hoofs  the  tuft  have  grazed. 

And,  in  the  summer-time  when  days  are  long, 
I  will  come  hither  with  my  Paramour; 
And  with  the  dancers  and  the  minstrel's  song 
We  will  make  merry  in  that  pleasant  bower. 

Till'the  foundations  of  the  mountain  fail 
My  mansion  with  its  arbour  shall  endure  ; — 
The  joy  of  them  who  till  the  fields  of  Swale, 
And  them  who  dwell  among  the  woods  of  Ure !" 

Then  home  he  went,  and  left  the  Hart  stone-dead. 
With  breathless  nostrils  stretched  above  the  spring. 
— Soon  did  the  Knight  perform  what  he  had  said  ; 
And  fur  and  wide  the  fame  thereof  did  ring. 

Ere  thrice  the  Moon  into  her  port  had  steered, 
A  cup  of  stone  received  the  living  well  ; 
Three  pillars  of  rude  stone  Sir  Walter  reared, 
And  built  a  house  of  pleasure  in  the  dell. 

And  near  the  fountain,  flowers  of  stature  tall 
With  trailing  plants  and  trees  were  intertwined, — 
Which  soon  composed  a  little  sylvan  hall, 
.\  leafy  shelter  from  the  sun  and  wind. 

And  thither,  when  the  summer  days  were  long. 
Sir  Walter  led  his  wondering  Paramour  ; 
And  with  the  dancers  and  the  minstrel's  song 
Made  merriment  within  that  pleasant  bower. 

The  Knight,  Sir  Waller,  died  in  course  of  time. 
And  his  bones  lie  in  his  paternal  vale, — 
But  there  is  matter  for  a  second  rhyme. 
And  I  to  this  would  add  another  tale. 


VOICES    OF     THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


219 


PART    SECOND. 

The  moving  accident  is  not  my  trade; 
To  freeze  the  blood  I  have  no  ready  arts ; 
Tis  my  delight,  alone  in  smnmur  shade, 
To  pipe  a  sim[)Ie  song  for  thinking  hearts. 

As  I  from  Hawes  to  Richmond  did  repair, 
It  chanced  that  I  savv  standing  in  a  dell 
Three  aspens  at  three  corners  of  a  square  ; 
And  one,  not  far  distant,  near  a  well.         ^ 

What  this  imported  I  could  ill  divine  : 
And,  pulling  now  the  rein  my  horse  to  stop, 
I  saw  three  pillars  standing  in  a  line, — 
The  last  stone-pillar  on  a  dark  hill-top. 

The  trees  were  grey,  with  neither  arms  nor  head  ; 
Half  wasted  the  square  mound  of  tawny  green  ; 
So  that  you  just  might  say,  as  then  I  said, 
"  Here  in  old  time  the  hand  of  man  hath  been." 

I  looked  upon  the  hill  both  far  and  near, 
More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey  ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  spring-time  came  not  here, 
And  Nature  here  were  willing  to  decay. 

I  stood  in  various  thoughts  and  fancies  lost. 
When  one,  who  was  in  shepherd's  garb  attired. 
Came  up  the  hollow  : — him  did   I  accost, 
And  what  his  place  might  be  I  then  inquired. 

The  Shepherd  stopped,  and  that  same  story  told 
Which  in  my  former  rhyme  I  have  rehearsed. 
«  A  jolly  place,"  said  he,  "  in  times  of  old  ! 
But  something  ails  it  now  :  the  spot  is  curst. 

You  see  these  lifeless  stumps  of  aspen  wood — 
Some  say  that  they  are  beeches,  others  elms — 
These  were  the  bower;  and  here  a  mansion  stood. 
The  finest  palace  of  a  hundred  realms^ 

The  arbour  does  its  own  condition  tell ; 
You  see  the  stones,  the  fountain,  and  the  stream  ; 
But  as  to  the  great  Lodge !  you  might  as  well 
Hunt  half  a  day  for  a  forgotten  dream. 

There's  neither  dog  nor  heifer,  horse  nor  sheep. 
Will  wet  his  lips  within  that  cup  of  stone; 
And  oftentimes,  when  all  are  fast  asleep. 
This  water  doth  send  forth  a  dolorous  groan. 

Some  say  that  here  a  murder  has  been  done, 
And  blood  cries  out  for  blood  :  but,  for  my  part, 
I've  guessed,  when  I've  been  sitting  in  the  sun, 
That  it  was  all  for  that  unhappy  Hart. 

What  thoughts  must  through  the  creature's  brain  have 

past ! 
Even  from  the  topmost  stone,  upon  the  steep. 
Are  but  three  bounds — and  look,  Sir,  at  this  last — 
0  Master!  it  has  been  a  cruel  leap. 


For  thirteen  hours  he  ran  a  desperate  race  ; 
And  in  my  simple  mind  we  cannot  tell 
What  cause  the  Hart  might  have  to  love  this  place, 
And  come  and  make  his  death  bed  near  the  well. 

Here  on  the  grass  perhaps  asleep  he  sank. 
Lulled  by  the  fountain  in  the  summer-tide; 
This  water  was  perhaps  the  first  he  drank 
When  he  had  wandered  from  his  mother's  side. 

In  April  here  beneath  the  flowering  thorn 
He  heard  the  birds  their  morning  carols  sing; 
And  he,  perhaps,  for  aught  we  know,  was  born 
Not  half  a  furlong  from  that  self-same  spring. 

Now,  here  is  neither  grass  nor  pleasant  shade  ; 

The  sun  on  drearer  hollow  never  shone, 

So  will  it  be,  as  I  have  often  said, 

Till  trees,  and  stones,  and  fountain,  all  are  gone." 

"  Grey-headed  Shepherd,  thou  hast  spoken  well; 
Small  diflerenee  lies  between  thy  creed  and  mine  : 
This  Beast  not  unobserved  by  Nature  fell; 
His  death  was  mourned  by  sympathy  divine. 

The  Being,  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air, 
That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the  groves, 
Maintains  a  deep  and  reverential  care, 
For  the  unoffending  creatures  whom  he  loves. 

The  pleasure-house  is  dust  : — behind,  before. 
This  is  no  common  waste,  no  common  gloom; 
But  Nature,  in  due  course  of  time,  once  more 
Shall  here  put  on  her  beauty  and  her  bloom. 

She  leaves  these  objects  to  a  slow  decay. 

That  what  we  are,  and  have  been,  may  be  known  ; 

But,  at  the  coming  of  the  milder  day. 

These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown. 

One  lesson,  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 

Taught  both  by  what  she  shows,  and  what  conceals ; 

Never  to  blend  our  pleasures  or  our  pride 

With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels." 


"MAY  I  COME  UP!" 

"  May  1  come  up  ?"  the  waking  germ  inquires  ? 
"  All  winter  long  ;  the  fearful  frost  has  bound 
Above  my  head  a  mass  of  icy  ground. 

I've  slept  in  silence,  till  the  solar  fires 
Have  driven  away  the  frost ;  the  softened  earth 
Invites  me  now  to  claim  the  right  of  birth. 

Oh  may  I  come,  and  see  day's  sunny  smile?'' 
"  Not  yet,  not  yet.     'Tis  past  the  time  of  snow, 
But  frosts  come,  and  the  nipping  winds  may  blow. 

'Tis  safe  for  thee  to  hide  a  little  while 
Within  thy  cell  :  ere  long  shalt  tho  arise 

And  God  thy  life  wilt  keep."  The  April  hours, 
Soon  weepingcome,  with  warm  and  genial  skies. 

The  germ  springs  up,  and  bears  a  crown  of  buds  and 
flowers. 


320 


VOICES  OF  THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


LOVE   AND   FAITH. 

BY  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD. 

•  ••••• 

I  thank  my  heavenly  Father  for  every  manifesta- 
tion of  human  love.  1  thank  him  for  all  experiences, 
be  they  sweet  or  bitter,  which  help  me  to  forgive 
all  things,  and  to  enfold  the  whole  world  with  bless- 
ing. '  What  sliall  be  our  rewanl,'  says  Swedenborg, 
'  for  loving  our  neighbour  us  ourselves  in  this  life  ? 
That  when  we  become  angels,  we  shall  be  enabled 
to  love  him  better  than  ourselves.'  This  is  a  reward 
pure  and  holy ;  the  only  one,  which  my  heart  has 
not  rejected,  whenever  offered  as  an  incitement  to 
goodness.  It  is  this  chielly  which  makes  the  hap- 
piness of  lovers  more  nearly  allied  to  heaven,  than 
any  other  emotions  experienced  by  the  human  heart. 
Each  loves  the  other  better  than  himself;  each  is 
■willing  to  sacrifice  all  to  the  other — nay,  finds  joy 
therein.  This  it  is  that  surrounds  them  with  a 
golden  atmosphere,  and  tinges  the  world  with  rose- 
colour.  A  mother's  love  has  the  same  angelic  cha- 
racter ;  more  completely  unselfish,  but  lacking  the 
charm  of  perfect  reciprocity. 

The  cure  for  all  the  ills  and  wrongs,  the  cares, 
the  sorrows,  and  the  crimes  of  humanity,  all  lie  in 
that  one  word,  love.  It  is  the  divine  vitality  that 
every  where  produces  and  restores  life.  To  each 
and  every  one  of  us  it  gives  the  power  of  working 
miriacles,  if  we  will. 

«  Love  is  the  slorj  without  an  end,  and  angels  throng  to  hear  ; 
The  word,  the  king  of  words,  carved  on  Jehovah's  heart.' 

From  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  all  feel  its  influ- 
ence, all  acknowledge  its  sway.  Even  the  poor, 
despised  donkey  is  changed  by  its  magic  influence. 
When  coerced  and  beaten,  he  is  vicious,  obstinate, 
and  stupid.  With  the  peasantry  of  Spain,  he  is  a 
petted  favourite,  almost  an  inmate  of  the  household. 
The  children  bid  him  welcome  home,  and  the  wife 
feeds  him  from  her  hands.  He  knows  them  all,  and 
he  loves  them  all,  for  he  feels  in  his  inmost  heart 
that  they  all  love  him.  He  will  follow  his  master, 
and  come  and  go  at  his  bidding,  like  a  faithful  dog ; 
and  he  delights  to  take  the  baby  on  his  back,  and 
walk  him  round,  gentlj',  on  the  greensward.  His 
intellect  expands,  too,  in  the  sunshine  of  affection  ; 
and  he  that  is  called  the  stupidest  of  animals  be- 
comes sagacious.  A  Spanish  peasant  had  for  many 
years  carried  milk  into  Madrid  to  supply  a  set  of 
customers.  Every  morning,  he  and  his  donkey, 
with  loaded  panniers,  trudged  the  well-known  round. 
At  last,  the  peasant  became  very  ill,  and  had  no 
one  to  send  to  market.  His  wife  proposed  to  send  the 
faithful  old  animal  by  himself.  The  paimiers  were 
accordingly  filled  with  cannisters  of  milk,  an  in- 
scription, written  by  the  priest,  requested  customers 
to  mr-usure  their  own  milk,  and  return  the  vessels; 
and  the  donkey  was  instructed   to  set  off  with  his 


load.  He  went,  and  returned  in  due  time  with  emp- 
ty cannisters  ;  and  this  he  continued  to  do  for  several 
days  The  house  bells  in  Madrid  are  usually  so  con- 
structed that  you  pull  downward  to  make  them  ring. 
The  peasant  afterward  learned  that  his  sagacious 
animal  stopped  before  the  door  of  every  customer, 
and  after  waiting  what  he  deemed  a  sufficient  time, 
pulled  the  bell  with  his  mouth.  If  affectionate  treat- 
ment will  thus  idealize  the  jackass,  what  may  it  not 
do  ?  Assuredly  there  is  no  limit  to  its  power.  It 
can  bani^crime,  and  make  this  earth  an  Eden. 

The  best  tamer  of  colts  that  was  ever  known  in 
Massachusetts,  never  allowed  whip  or  spur  to  be 
used  ;  and  the  horses  he  trained  never  nccc/ei/  the 
whip.  Their  spirits  were  unbroken  by  severity, 
and  they  obeyed  the  slightest  impulse  of  the  voice 
or  rein,  with  the  most  animated  promptitude;  but 
rendered  obedient  to  affection,  their  vivacity  was 
always  restrained  by  graceful  docility.  He  said  it 
was  with  horses  as  with  children  ;  if  accustomed  to 
beating,  they  would  not  obey  without  it.  But  if 
managed  with  untiring  gentleness,  united  with  con- 
sistent and  very  equable  firmness,  the  victory  once 
gained  over  them,  was  gained  for  ever. 

In  the  face  of  all  these  facts,  the  world  goes  on 
manufacturing  whips,  spurs,  the  gallows,  and  chains  ; 
while  each  one  carries  within  his  own  soul  a  divine 
substitute  for  these  devil's  inventions,  with  which 
he  inis^ld  work  miracles,  inward  and  outward,  if  he 
would.  Unto  this  end  let  us  work  with  unfaltering 
faith.  Great  is  the  strength  of  an  individual  soul, 
true  to  its  high  trust ; — mighty  is  it  even  to  the  re- 
demption of  a  world. 

A  German,  whose  sense  of  sound  was  exceedingly 
acute,  was  passing  by  a  church,  a  day  or  two  after 
he  had  landed  in  this  country,  and  the  sound  of  music 
attracted  him  to  enter,  though  he  had  no  knowledge 
of  our  language.  The  music  proved  to  be  a  piece  of 
nasal  psalmody,  sung  in  most  discordant  fashion; 
and  the  sensitive  German  would  fain  have  covered 
his  ears.  As  this  was  scarcely  civil,  and  might  ap- 
pear like  insanity,  his  next  impulse  was  to  rush 
into  the  opeii  air,  and  leave  the  hated  sounds  behind 
him.  '  But  this  too  I  feared  to  do,'  said  he.  'lest 
offence  might  be  given  ;  so  I  resolved  to  endure  the 
torture  with  the  best  fortitude  I  could  assume  ; 
when  lo !  I  distinguished  amid  the  din,  the  soft 
clear  voice  of  a  woman  singing  in  perfect  tune.  She 
made  no  effort  to  drown  the  voices  of  her  com- 
panions, neither  was  she  disturbed  by  their  noisy 
discord ;  but  patiently  and  sweetly  she  sang  in  full, 
rich  tones  :  one  after  another  yieldcl  to  the  gentle 
influence  ;  and  before  the  tune  was  finished,  all  were 
in  perfect  harmony.' 

I  have  often  thought  of  this  story  as  conveying  an 
instructive  lesson  for  reformers,  'i'he  spirit  that  can 
thus  sing  i>ati<'ntly  and  sweetly  in  a  world  of  dis- 
cord, must  indeed  be  of  the  strongest,  as  well  as  the 
gentlest   kind.      One   scarce   can  hear  his  own  soft 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


221 


voice  amid  the  braying  of  the  multitude;  and  ever 
and  anon  comes  the  temptation  to  sing  louder  than 
they,  and'drown  the  voices  that  cannot  thus  he  forc- 
ed into  perfect  tune.  But  this  were  a  pitiful  expe- 
riment ;  the  melodious  tones,  cracked  into  shrillness  ; 
would  only  increase  the  tumult. 

Stronger,  and  more  frequently,  comes  the  tempta- 
tion to  stop  singing,  and  let  discord  do  its  own  wild 
work.  But  blessed  are  they  that  endure  to  the  end- 
singing  patiently  and  sweetly,  till  all  join  in  with 
loving  acquiescence,  and  universal  harmony  prevails, 
without  forcing  into  submission  the  free  discord  of 
a  single  voice. 

This  is  the  hardest  and  the  bravest  task,  which  a 
true  soul  has  to  perform  amid  the  clashing  elements 
of  time.  But  once  has  it  been  done  perfectly,  unto 
the  end  ;  and  that  voice,  so  clear  in  its  meekness,  is 
heard  above  all  the  din  of  a  tumultuous  world;  one 
after  another  chimes  in  with  its  patient  sweetness, 
and,  through  infinite  discords,  the  listening  soul  can 
perceive  that  the  great  tune  is  slowly  coming  into 
harmony. 


A    CHIPPEWA   LEGEND. 

BY  JAMfiS  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

The  old  Chief,  feeling  now  well-nigh  his  end. 
Called  his  two  eldest  children  to  his  side, 
And  gave  them,  in  few  words,  his  parting  charge: 
"  My  son  and  daughter,  me  ye  see  no  more  ; 
The  happy  hunting-grounds  await  me,  green 
With  change  of  spring  and  summer  through  the  year : 
But,  for  remembrance,  after  I  am  gonej 
Be  kind  to  little  Sheemah  for  my  sake : 
Weakling  he  is  and  young,   and  knows  not  yet 
To  set  the  trap,  or  draw  the  seasoned  bow ; 
Therefore  of  both  your  loves  he  hath  more  need, 
And  he,  who  needeth  love,  to  love  hath  right ; 
It  is  not  like  our  furs  and  stores  of  corn, 
Whereto  we  claim  sole  title  by  our  toil, 
But  the  Great  Spirit  plants  it  in  our  hearts, 
And  waters  it,  and  gives  it  sun,  to  be 
The  common  stock  and  heritage  of  all : 
Therefore  be  kind  to  Sheemah,  that  yourselves 
May  not  be  left  deserted  in  your  need." 

Alone,  beside  a  lake,  their  wigwam  stood, 
Far  from  the  other  dwellings  of  their  tribe  ; 
And,  after  many  moons,  the  loneliness 
Wearied  the  elder  brother,  and  he  said, 
<<  Why  should  I  dwell  here  all  alone,  shut  out 
From  the  free,  natural  joys  that  fit  my  age  1 


Lo,  I  am  tall  and  strong,  well  skilled  to  hunt, 
Patient  of  toil  and  hunger,  and  not  yet 
Have  seen  the  danger  which  1  dared  not  look 
Full  in  the  face  ;  what  hinders  me  to  be 
A  mighty  Brave  and  Chief  among  my  kin  ?" 
So,  taking  up  his  arrows  and  his  bow. 
As  if  to  hunt,  he  journeyed  swiftly  on. 
Until  he  gained  the  wigwams  of  his  tribe, 
Where,  choosing  out  a  bride,  he  soon  forgot, 
In  all  the  fret  and  bustle  of  new  life. 
The  little  Sheemah  and  his  father's  charge. 

Now  when  the  sister  found  her  brother  gone. 
And  that,  for  many  days,  he  came  not  back. 
She  wept  for  Sheemah  more  than  for  herself; 
For  Love  bides  longest  in  a  woman's  heart, 
And  flutters  many  times  before  he  flies. 
And  then  doth  perch  so  nearly,  that  a  word 
May  lure  him  back,  as  swift  and  glad  as  light ; 
And  Duty  lingers  even  when  Love  is  gone. 
Oft  looking  out  in  hope  of  his  return  ; 
And,  after  Duty  hath  been  driven  forth. 
Then  Selfishness  creeps  in  the  last  of  all. 
Warming  her  lean  hands  at  the  lonely  hearth, 
And  crouching  o'er  the  embers,  to  shut  out 
Whatever  paltry  warmth  and  light  are  left. 
With  avaricious  greed,  from  all  beside. 
So,  for  long  months,  the  sister  hunted  wide. 
And  cared  for  little  Sheemah  tenderly; 
But,  daily  more  and  more,  the  loneliness 
Grew  wearisome,  and  to  herself  she  sighed, 
"  Am  I  not  fair  ?  at  least  the  glossy  pool. 
That  hath  no  cause  to  flatter,  tells  me  so; 
But,  O,  how  flat  and  meaningless  the  tale. 
Unless  it  tremble  on  a  lover's  tongue  ! 
Beauty  hath  no  true  glass,  except  it  be 
In  the  sweet  privacy  of  loving  eyes." 
Thus  deemed  she  idly,  and  forgot  the  lore 
Which  she  had  learned  of  nature  and  the  w^oods. 
That  beauty's  chief  reward  is  to  itself. 
And  that  the  eyes  of  Love  reflect  alone 
The  inward  fairness,  which  is  blurred  and  lost 
Unless  kept  clear  and  white  by  Duty's  care. 
So  she  went  forth  and  sought  the  haunts  of  men, 
And,  being  wedded,  in  her  household  cares. 
Soon,  like  the  elder  brother,  quite  forgot 
The  little  Sheemah  and  her  father's  charge. 

But  Shoemah,  left  alone  within  the  lodge. 
Waited  and  waited,  with  a  shrinking  heart. 
Thinking  each  rustle  was  his  sister's  step. 
Till  hope  grew  less  and  less,  and  then  went  out. 
And  every  sound  was  changed  from  hope  to  fear. 
Few  sounds  there  were  : — the  dropping  of  a  nut, 
The  squirrel's  chirrup,  and  the  jay's  harsh  scream, 
Autumn's  sad  remnants  of  blithe  Summer's  cheer, 
Heard  at  long  intervals,  seemed  but  to  make 
The  dreadful  void  of  silence  silenter. 
Soon  what  small  store  his  sister  left  was  gone. 


222 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


And,  through  the  Autumn,  he  made  shift  to  live 

On  roots  and  berries,  gathered  in  much  fear 

Of  wolves,  whose  ghastly  howl  he  heard  ofttimes. 

Hollow  and  hungry,  at  the  dead  of  night. 

But  Winter  came  at  last,  and,  when  the  snow. 

Thick-heaped  for  gleaming  leagues  o'er  hill  and  plain. 

Spread  its  unbroken  silence  over  all, 

Made  bold  by  hunger,  he  was  fain  to  glean, 

(More  sick  at  heart  than  Ruth,  and  all  alone,) 

After  the  harvest  of  the  merciless  wolf. 

Grim  Boaz,  who,  sharp-ribbed  and  gaunt,  yet  feared 

A  thing  more  starving  than  himself; 

Till,  by  degrees,  the  wolf  and  he  grew  friends, 

And  shared  together  all  the  winter  through. 

Late  in  the  Spring,  when  all  the  ice  was  gone, 
The  elder  brother,  fishing  in  the  lake, 
Upon  whose  edge  his  father's  wigwam  stood, 
Heard  a  low  moaning  noise  upon  the  shore  : 
Half  like  a  child  it  seemed,  half  like  a  wolf. 
And  straightway  there  was  something  in  his  heart 
That  said,  "  It  is  thy  brother  Sheemah's  voice." 
So,  paddling  swiftly  to  the  bank,  he  saw, 
Within  a  little  thicket  close  at  hand, 
A  child  that  seemed  fast  changing  to  a  wolf, 
From  the  neck  downward,  gray  with  shaggy  hair, 
That  still  crept  on  and  upward  as  he  looked. 
The  face  was  turned  away,  but  well  he  knew 
That  it  was  Sheemah's,  even  his  brother's  face. 
Then  with  his  trembling  hands  he  hid  his  eyes, 
And  bowed  his  head,  so  that  he  might  not  see 
The  first  look  of  his  brother's  eyes,  and  cried, 
«<  0,  Sheemah  !  O,  my  brother,  speak  to  me  ! 
Dost  thou  not  know  me,  that  I  am  thy  brother  ? 
Come  to  me,  little  Sheemah,  thou  shalt  dwell 
With  me  henceforth,  and  know  no  care  or  want !" 
Sheemah  was  silent  for  a  space,  as  if 
'T  were  hard  to  summon  up  a  human  voice, 
And,  when  he  spake,  the  sound  was  of  a  wolfs  : 
«'  I  know  thee  not,  nor  art  thou  what  thou  say'st; 
I  have  none  other  brethren  than  the  wolves, 
And,  till  thy  heart  be  changed  from  what  it  is, 
Thou  art  not  worthy  to  be  called  their  kin." 
Then  groaned  the  other,  with  a  choking  tongue, 
"  Alas  !  my  heart  is  changed  right  bitterly; 
'T  is  shrunk  and  parched  within  me  even  now!" 
And,  looking  up  fearfully,  he  saw 
Only  a  wolf  that  shrank  away  and  ran, 
Ugly  and  fierce,  to  hide  among  the  woods. 

This  rude,  wild  legend  hath  an  inward  sense. 
Which  it  were  well  we  all  should  lay  to  heart ; 
For  have  not  we  our  younger  brothers,  too. 
The  poor,  the  outcast,  and  the  troddendown. 
Left  fatherless  on  earth  to  pine  for  bread  ? 
They  are  ahungered  for  our  love  and  care, 
It  is  their  spirits  that  are  famishing, 
And  our  dear  Father,  in  his  Testament, 
Bequeathed  them  to  us  as  our  dearest  trust. 


Wherefore  we  shall  give  up  a  straight  account. 

Woe,  if  we  have  forgotten  them,  and  left 

Those  souls  that  might  have  grown  so  fair  and  glad, 

That  only  wanted  a  kind  word  from  us. 

To  be  so  free  and  gently  beautiful, — 

Left  them  to  feel  their  birthright  as  a  curse, 

To  grow  all  lean,  and  cramped,  and  full  of  sores. 

And  last, — sad  change,  that  surely  comes  to  all 

Shut  out  from  manhood  by  their  brother-man,— 

To  turn  mere  wolves,  for  lack  of  aught  to  love  ! 

Hear  it,  0  England !  thou  who  liest  asleep 
On  a  volcano,  from  whose  pent-up  wrath, 
Already  some  red  flashes,  bursting  up. 
Glare  bloodily  on  coronet  and  crown 
And  gray  cathedral  looming  huge  aloof. 
With  dreadful  portent  of  o'erhanging  doom  ! 
Thou  Dives  among  nations  !  from  whose  board. 
After  the  dogs  are  fed,  poor  Lazarus, 
Crooked  and  worn  with  toil,  and  hollow-eyed. 
Begs  a  few  crumbs  in  vain  ! 

I  honour  thee 
For  all  the  lessons  thou  hast  taught  the  world, 
Not  few  nor  poor,  and  freedom  chief  of  all ; 
I  honour  thee  for  thy  huge  energy, 
Thy  tough  endurance,  and  thy  fearless  heart : 
And  how  could  man,  who  speaks  with  English  words. 
Think  lightly  of  the  blessed  womb  that  bare 
Shakspeare  and  Milton,  and  full  many  more 
Whose  names  are  now  our  earth's  sweet  lullabies. 
Wherewith  she  cheers  the  infancy  of  those 
Who  are  to  do  her  honour  in  their  lives  1 
Yet  I  would  bid  thee,  ere  too  late,  beware, 
Lest,  while  thou  playest  ofT  thine  empty  farce 
Of  Queenship  to  outface  a  grinning  world. 
Patching  thy  purple  out  with  filthy  rags. 
To  make  thy  madness  a  more  bitter  scoflT, 
Thy  starving  millions, — who  not  only  pine 
For  body's  bread,  but  for  the  bread  of  life. 
The  light  which  from  their  eyes  is  quite  shut  out 
By  the  broad  mockery  of  thy  golden  roof, — 
Should  turn  to  wolves  that  hanker  for  thy  blood. 
Even  now  their  cry,  which,  o'er  the  ocean-stream. 
Wanders,  and  moans  upon  the  awe-struck  ear. 
Clear-heard  above  the  sea's  eternal  wail. 
But  deeper  far,  and  mournfuller,  than  that, 
(For  nought  so  fathomless  as  woe  unshared,) 
Hath  learned  a  savage  meaning  of  the  wolf. 
Whose  nature  now  half-triumphs  in  the  heart 
Of  the  world-exiled  and  despairing  Man. 

And  thou,  my  country,  who  to  me  art  dear 
As  is  the  blood  that  circles  through  my  heart. 
To  whom  God  granted  it  in  charge  to  be 
Freedom's  apostle  to  a  trampled  world. 
Who  shouldst  have  been  a  mighty  name  to  shae 
Old  lies  and  shams,  as  with  a  voice  from  Heaven, 
Art  little  better  than  a  sneer  ajid  mock. 
And  tyrants  smile  to  see  thee  holding  up 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED, 


223 


Freedom's  broad  JF.g'is  o'er  three  million  slaves ! 

Shall  God  forget  himself  to  honor  thee  1 

Shall  justice  lie  to  screen  thine  ugly  sin  ? 

Shall  the  eternal  laws  of  truth  become 

Cobwebs  to  let  thy  foul  oppression  through  ? 

Shall  the  untiring  Vengeance,  that  pursues, 

Age  after  age,  upon  the  sinner's  track, 

Roll  back  his  burning  deluge  at  thy  beck? 

Woe  !  woe  !  Even  now  I  see  thy  star  drop  down, 

Waning  and  pale,  its  faint  disc  flecked  with  blood, 

That  had  been  set  in  heaven  gloriously. 

To  beacon  Man  to  Freedom  and  to  Home ! 

Woe!  woe  !  I  hear  the  loathsome  serpent  hiss, 

Trailing,  unharmed,  its  slow  and  bloated  folds 

O'er  the  lone  ruins  of  thy  Capitol ! 

I  see  those  outcast  millions  turned  to  wolves, 

That  howl  and  snarl  o'er  Freedom's  gory  corse, 

And  lap  the  ebbing  heart's-bloodof  that  Hope, 

Which  would  have  made  our  earth  smile  back  on 

heaven, 
A  happy  child  upon  a  happy  mother, 
From  whose  ripe  breast  it  drew  the  milk  of  life. 

But  no,  my  country  !  other  thoughts  than  these 
Befit  a  son  of  thine  :  serener  thoughts 
Befit  the  heart  which  can,  unswerved,  believe 
That  wrong  already  feels  itself  o'ercome, 
If  but  one  soul  have  strength  to  see  the  right. 
Or  one  free  tongue  dare  speak  it.     All  mankind 
Look,  with  an  anxious  flutter  of  the  heart, 
To  see  thee  working  out  thy  glorious  doom. 
Thou  shalt  not,  with  a  lie  upon  thy  lips, 
Forever  prop  up  cunning  despotisms, 
And  help  to  strengthen  every  tyrant's  plea. 
By  striving  to  make  man's  deep  soul  content 
With  a  half-truth  that  feeds  it  with  mere  wind. 
God  judgeth  us  by  what  we  know  of  right, 
Rather  than  what  we  practise  that  is  wrong. 
Unknowingly;  and  thou  shalt  yet  be  bold 
To  stand  before  Him,  with  a  heart  made  clean 
By  doing  that  He  taught  thee  how  to  preach. 
Thou  yet  shalt  do  thy  holy  errand  ;  yet, 
That  little  Mayflower,  convoyed  by  the  winds 
And  the  rude  waters  to  our  rocky  shore. 
Shall  scatter  Freedom's  seed  throughout  the  world. 
And  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  shall  come. 
Singing,  to  share  the  harvest-home  of  Truth. 


Have  you  traced  the  cause  and  consequence  of  that 
under  current  of  opinion  which  is  slowly,  but  surely 
sapping  the  foundations  of  empires  ?  Have  you 
heard  the  low  booming  of  that  mighty  ocean  which 
approaches,  wave  after  wave,  to  break  up  the  dykes 
and  boundaries  of  ancient  power  ? 

Mrs.  Jameson's  Vinils  and  Sketches. 


Genius,  even  in  its  faintest  scintillations,  Is  the  in- 
pired  gift  of  God— a  solemn  mandate  to  its  owner  to 
go  forth  and  labour  in  his  sphere,  to  keep  alive  the 
sacred  fire  among  his  brethren,  which  the  heavy  and 
polluted  atmosphere  of  this  world  is  forever  threat- 
ning  to  extinguish.  Woe  to  him,  if  he  neglect  this 
mandate — if  he  hear  not  its  still  small  voice.  Woe 
to  him  if  he  turn  this  inspired  gift  into  the  servant 
of  his  evil  or  ignoble  passions  ;  if  he  offer  it  at  the 
shrine  of  vanity,  or  if  he  sell  it  for  a  piece  of  money. 

D'lsRiELI. 


The  influence  of  Coleridge,  like  that  of  Bentham, 
extends  far  beyond  those  who  share  in  the  peculia- 
rities of  his  philosophical  or  religious  creed.  He 
has  been  the  great  awakener  in  this  country  of  the 
spirit  of  philosophy,  within  the  bounds  of  tradition- 
al opinions.  He  has  been,  almost  as  truly  as  Ben- 
tham, "the  great  questioner  of  things  established  :" 

*  *  *  *  By  Bentham,  beyond  all  others,  men 
have  been  led  to  ask  themselves,  in  regard  to  any 
ancient  or  received  opinion.  Is  it  h-ue  ?  And  by 
Coleridge,  what  is  the  meaning  of  it  ?  The  one 
took  his  stand  outside  the  received  opinion,  and  sur- 
veyed it  as  an  entire  stranger  to  it :  the  other,  look- 
ed at  it  from  within,  and  endeavoured  to  see  it  with 
the  eyes  of  a  believer  in  it;  to  discover  by  what  ap- 
parent facts  it  was  at  first  suggested,  and  by  what 
appearances  it  has  ever  since  been  rendered  credible. 

*  *  *  Bentham  judged  a  proposition  true  or  false, 
as  it  accorded  or  not  with  the  result  of  his  inquiries ; 
and  did  not  search  very  curiously  into  what  might 
be  meant  by  the  proposition,  when  it  obviously  did 
not  mean  what  he  thought  true. 

With  Coleridge  on  the  contrary,  the  very  fact  that 
any  doctrine  had  been  believed  by  thoughtful  men, 
and  received  by  whole  nations  or  generations  of 
mankind,  was  a  part  of  the  problem  to  be  solved, 
was  one  of  the  phenomena  to  be  accounted  for.  And 
as  Bentham's  short  and  easy  method  of  referring  all 
to  the  selfish  interests  of  aristocracies,  or  priests,  or 
lawyers,  or  some  other  species  of  impostors,  could 
not  satisfy  a  man  who  saw  so  much  farther  into  the 
complexities  of  human  intellect  and  feelings — he 
considered  the  long  or  extensive  prevalence  of  any 
opinion  as  a  presumption  that  it  was  not  altogether 
a  fallacy  ;  that,  to  its  first  authors,  at  least,  it  was 
the  result  of  a  struggle  to  express  in  words  some- 
thing which  had  a  reality  to  them,  though  not  per- 
haps to  many  of  those  who  have  since  received  the 
doctrine  as  mere  tradition.  The  long  duration  of  a 
belief,  he  thought,  is  at  least  proof  positive  of  an 
adaptation  in  it  to  some  portion  or  other  of  the  hu- 
man mind  ;  and  if  on  digging  down  to  the  root,  we 
do  not  find,  as  is  generally  the  case,  some  truth,  we 
shall  find  some  natural  want  or  requirement  of  hu- 
man nature  which  the  doctrine  in  question  is  fitted 
to  satisfy  :  among  which  wants,  the  instincts  of  self- 


224 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


ishness  and  of  credulity  have  a  place,  but  by  no 
means  an  exclusive  one.  Thus,  Bentham  continu- 
ally missed  the  truth  which  is  in  the  traditional  opi- 
nions, and  Coleridge,  that  which  is  not  of  them. 
But  each  found  much  of  what  the  other  missed. 

Critique  on  Coleridge's  writings. 


The  true  scholar  will  feel  that  the  richest  ro- 
mance, the  nobl-ifst  fiction  that  was  ever  woven,  the 
heart  and  soul  of  beauty,  lies  enclosed  in  human  life. 
Itself  of  surpassing  value,  it  is  also  the  richest  ma- 
terial for  his  creations.  ♦  ♦  ♦  He  must  bear  his 
share  of  the  common  load.  He  must  work  with 
men  in  houses,  and  not  with  their  names  in  books. 
His  needs,  appetites,  talents,  affections,  accomplish- 
ments, are  keys  that  open  to  him  the  beautiful  mu- 
seum of  human  life.  Why  should  he  read"  it  as  an 
Arabian  tale,  and  not  know  in  his  own  beating  bosom 
its  sweet  and  smart  ?  Out  of  love  and  hatred,  out  of 
earnings  and  borrowings  and  lendings  and  losses, 
out  of  sickness  and  pain,  out  of  wooing  and  worship- 
ping, out  of  travelling  and  voting  and  watching  and 
caring,  out  of  disgrace  and  contempt,  comes  our 
tuition  in  the  serene  and  beautiful  laws.  Let  him 
not  slur  his  lesson  ;  let  him  learn  it  by  heart.  Let 
him  endeavour  exactly,  bravely,  and  cheerfully,  to 
solve  the  problem  of  that  life  which  is  set  before 
him;  and  this  by  punctual  action,  and  not  by  pro- 
mises and  dreams.  Literary  Lionism. 


lamp-light — and  be  wafted  away  in  perfume  and 
praise.  As  surely  as  the  human  thought  has  power 
to  fly  abroad  over  an  expanse  of  a  thousand  years, 
it  has  need  to  rest  on  that  far  shore  and  meditate — 
"  where  now  are  the  flatteries  and  vanities,  and  com- 
petitions which  seemed  so  important  in  their  duty  ? 
Where  are  the  ephemeral  reputations,  the  glow-worm 
ideas,  the  gossamer  sentiments  which  the  imperti- 
nent voice  of  Fashion,  pronounced  immortal  and 
divine?  The  deluge  of  oblivion  has  swept  over 
them  all,  while  the  minds  which  were  really  im- 
mortal and  divine,  are  still  there,  ■  forever  singing 
as  they  shine'  in  the  firmament  of  thought,  and  mir- 
rored in  the  deep  of  ages  out  of  which  they  rose." 

Literary  Lionism. 


Many  are  the  thousands  who  have  let  the  man  die 
within  them  Irom  cowardly  care  about  meat  and 
drink,  and  a  warm  corner  in  this  great  asylum  of 
safety,  whose  gates  have  ever  been  thronged  by  the 
multitude  who  cannot  appreciate  the  free  air  and 
open  heaven.  And  many  are  the  hundreds  who 
have  let  the  poet  die  within  them,  that  their  com- 
placency may  be  fed,  their  vanity  intoxicated,  and 
themselves  securely  harboured  in  the  praise  of  their 
immediate  neighbours.  Few,  very  iew  are  there 
who,  "  noble  in  reason,"  and  conscious  of  being 
"  infinite  in  faculties,"  have  faith  to  look  before  and 
after ;  faith  to  go  on,  to  reverence  the  dreams  of 
their  youth;  faith  to  appeal  to  the  god-like  human 
mind  yet  unborn.  Among  the  millions  who  are 
now  thinking  and  feeling  on  our  own  soil,  is  it  not 
likely  that  there  is  one  who  might  take  up  the  song 
of  Homer,  one  who  might  talk  the  night  away  with 
Socrates,  one  who  might  be  the  Shakespeare  of  an 
age,  when  our  volcanoes  shall  have  become  regions 
of  green  pasture  and  still  waters,  and  new  islands 
shall  send  forth  human  speech  from  the  midst  of  the 
sea?  What  are  such  men  about?  If  one  is  pining 
in  want,  rusting  in  ignorance,  or  turning  from  angel 
to  devil  under  oppression,  it  is  too  probable  that 
another  may  be  undergoing  extinction  in  drawing 
rooms — surrendering  his  divine  faculties  to  wither  in 


We  talk  of  the  world,  of  fate,  of  chance,  and  mis- 
chance, often  in  a  very  bad  humour.  But  how  much 
of  this  world  have  we  seen  ? — how  much  have  we 
not  seen  ?  How  much  can — will — we  not  see  for 
sheer  indolence  and  blindness  ?  I  have  seen  wonders 
to-day  in  this  most  frivolous  and  godless  of  cities, 
Berlin.  What  lives  in  women  whom  I  found  in  the 
lowest,  grass-grown,  neglected,  hovels  !  How  dif- 
ferent is  every  thing  among  the  lower  classes  from 
what  the  wise  in  this  world  have  published,  printed, 
read,  and  believed!  God  alone  knows  how  much 
real,  simple-minded,  sterling  honesty  and  truth  He 
has  sent  into  the  world.  Blessed  be  his  name  that 
he  has  given  me  eyes  to  see  it,  Rahel. 


I  will  gladden  the  human  circle  in  which  I  live. 
I  will  open  my  heart  to  the  gospel  of  life  and  nature. 
1  will  seize  hold  on  the  moments,  and  the  good  which 
they  bring.  No  friendly  glance,  no  spring-breeze, 
shall  pass  over  me  unenjoyed  or  unacknowledged. 
Out  of  every  flower  will  I  suck  a  drop  of  honey,  and 
out  of  every  moment  a  drop  of  eternal  life. 

Not  till  we  have  patiently  studied  beauty  can  we 
safely  venture  to  look  at  defects,  for  not  till  then 
can  we  do  it  in  that  spirit  of  earnest  love  which  gives 
more  than  it  takes  away. 


I  ? — no  ;  how  should  I — skimming  over  the  sur- 
face of  society  with  perpetual  sunshine  and  favour- 
ing airs — how  should  I  sound  the  shoals  and  gulf 
which  lie  below  ?        ^ 

Mrs.  Jameson's  Visits  and  Sketches. 

Riches  weigh  more  heavily  upon  talent  than  pover- 
ty.     Under  gold   mountains  and  thrones  lie  buried      ^ 
many  spiritual  giants.  Richtkr.  1 


1  hold  the  constant  regard  that  we  pay  in  all  our 
actions  to  the  judgments  of  others,  as  the  poison  of 
our  peace,  our  reason,  and  our  virtue.  Upon  this 
slave's  chain  have  I  long  filed,   but  I  scarcely  hope      J 


ever  to  break  it 


RiCUTER. 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


PROMETHEUS. 


BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


One  after  one  the  stars  have  risen  and  set, 

Sparkling  upon  the  hoarfrost  on  my  chain : 

The  Bear,  that  prowled  all  night  about  the  fold 

Of  the  North-star,  hath  shrunk  into  his  den, 

Scared  by  the  blithesoine  footsteps  ot  the  Dawn, 

Whose  blushing  smile  floods  all  the  Orient ; 

And  now  bright  Lucifer  grows  less  and  less, 

Into  the  heaven's  blue  quiet  deep-withdrawn. 

Sunless  and  starless  all,  the  desert  sky 

Arches  above  me,  empty  as  this  heart 

For  ages  hath  been  empty  of  all  joy. 

Except  to  brood  upon  its  silent  hope, 

As  o'er  its  hope  of  day  the  sky  doth  now. 

All  night  have  I  heard  voices  :  deeper  yet 

The  deep  low  breathing  of  the  silence  grew. 

While  all  about,  muffled  in  awe,  there  stood 

Shadows,  or  forms,  or  both,  clear-felt  at  heart, 

But,  when  I  turned  to  front  them,  far  along 

Only  a  shudder  through  the  midnight  ran, 

And  the  dense  stillness  walled  me  closer  round. 

But  still  I  heard  them  wander  up  and  down 

That  solitude,  and  flappings  of  dusk  wings 

Did  mingle  with  them,  whether  of  those  hags 

Let  slip  upon  me  once  from  Hades  deep, 

Or  of  yet  direr  torments,  if  such  be, 

I  could  but  guess;  and  then  toward  me  came 

A  shape  as  of  a  woman  :  very  pale 

It  was,  and  calm ;  its  cold  eyes  did  not  move, 

And  mine  moved  not,  but  only  stared  on  them. 

Their  fixed  awe  went  through  my  brain  like  ice; 

A  skeleton  hand  seemed  clutching  at  my  heart, 

And  a  sharp  chill,  as  if  a  dank  night  fog 

Suddenly  closed  me  in,  was  all  I  felt  : 

And  then,  methought,  I  heard  a  freezing  sigh. 

A  long,  deep,  shivering  sigh,  as  from  blue  lips 

Stiffening  in  death,  close  to  mine  ear.     I  thought 

Some  doom  was  close  upon  me,  and  I  looked 

And  saw  the  red  moon  through  the  heavy  mist. 

Just  setting,  and  it  seemed  as  it  were  falling, 

Or  reeling  to  its  fall,  so  dim  and  dead 

And  palsy-struck  it  looked.    Then  all  sounds  merged 

Into  the  rising  surges  of  the  pines, 

Which,  leagues  below  me,  clothing  the  gaunt  loins 

Of  ancient  Caucasus  with  hairy  strength, 

Sent  up  a  murmur  in  the  morning  wind, 

Sad  as  the  wail  that  from  the  populous  earth 

All  day  and  night  to  high  Olympus  soars. 

Fit  incense  to  thy  wicked  throne,  0  Jove  I 


Thy  hated  name  is  tossed  once  more  in  scorn 
From  ofl^my  lips,  for  I  will  tell  thy  doom. 
And  are  these  tears?     Nay,  do  not  triumph,  Jove! 
They  are  wrung  from  me  but  by  the  agonies 
Of  prophecy,  like  those  sparse  drops  which  fall 
From  clouds  in  travail  of  the  lightning,  when 
The  great  wave  of  the  storm,  high-curled  and  black 
Rolls  steadily  onward  to  its  thunderous  break. 
Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou  poor  type 
Of  anger,  and  revenge,  and  cunning  force? 
True  Power  was  never  born  of  brutish  Strength, 
Nor  sweet  Truth  suckled  at  the  shaggy  dugs 
Of  that  old  she-wolf.     Are  thy  thunderbolts. 
That  quell  the  darkness  for  a  space,  so  strong 
As  the  prevailing  patience  of  meek  Light, 
Who,  with  the  invincible  tenderness  of  peace, 
Wins  it  to  be  a  portion  of  herself? 
Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou,  who  hast 
The  never-sleeping  terror  at  thy  heart, 
That  birthright  of  all  tyrants,  worse  to  bear 
Than  this  thy  ravening  bird  on  which  1  smile? 
Thou  swear'st  to  free  me,  if  I  will  unfold 
What  kind  of  doom  it  is  whose  omen  flits 
Across  thy  heart,  as  o'er  a  troop  of  doves 
The  tearful  shadow  of  the  kite.     What  need 
To  know  that  truth  whose  knowledge  cannot  save  ? 
Evil  its  errand  hath,  as  well  as  Good  ; 
When  thine  is  finished,  thou  art  known  no  more  : 
There  is  a  higher  purity  than  thou. 
And  higher  purity  is  greater  strength; 
Thy  nature  is  thy  doom,  at  which  thy  heart 
Trembles  behind  the  thick  wall  of  thy  might. 
Let  man  but  hope,  and  thou  art  straightway  chilled 
With  thought  of  that  drear  silence  and  deep  night 
Which,  like  a  dream,  shall  swallow  thee  and  thine. 
Let  man  but  will,  and  thou  art  god  no  more. 
More  capable  of  ruin  than  the  gold 
And  ivory  that  image  thee  on  earth. 
He  who  hurled  down  the  monstrous  Titan-brood 
Blinded  with  lightnings,  with  rough  thunders  "stun- 
ned. 
Is  weaker  than  a  simple  human  thought. 
My  slender  voice  can  shake  thee,  as  the  breeze, 
That  seems  but  apt  to  stir  a  maiden's  hair, 
Sways  huge  Oceanus  from  pole  to  pole  : 
For  I  am  still  Prometheus,  and  foreknow 
In  my  wise  heart  the  end  and  doom  of  all. 

Yes,  I  am  still  Prometheus,  wiser  grown 
By  years  of  solitude, — that  holds  apart 
The  past  and  future,  giving  the  soul  room 
29 


226 


VOICES    OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


To  search  into  itself,— and  long  commune 

With  this  eternal  silence; — more  a  god, 

In  my  long-suffering  and  strength  to  meet 

With  equal  front  the  direst  shafts  of  fate. 

Than  thou  in  thy  faint-hearted  despotism, 

Girt  with  thy  baby-toys  of  force  and  wrath. 

Yes,  I  am  that  Prometheus  who  brought  down 

The  light  to  man,  which  thou,  in  selfish  fear, 

Had'st  to  thyself  usurped,— his  by  sole  right. 

For  Man  hath  right  to  all  save  'l^yranny, — 

And  which  shall  free  him  yet  from  thy  frail  throne. 

Tyrants  are  but  the  spawn  of  ignorance, 

Begotten  by  the  slaves  they  trample  on. 

Who,  could  they  win  a  glimmer  of  the  light. 

And  see  that  Tyranny  is  always  weakness, 

Or  Fear  with  its  own  bosom  ill  at  ease. 

Would  laugh  away  in  scorn  the  sand-wove  chain 

Which  their  own  blindness  feigned  for  adamant. 

Wrong  ever  builds  on  quicksands,  but  the  Right 

To  the  firm  centre  lays  its  moveless  base. 

The  tyrant  trembles,  if  the  air  but  stirs 

The  innocent  ringlets  of  a  child's  free  hair. 

And  croufihes,  when  the  thought  of  some  great  spirit. 

With  world-wide  murmur,  like  a  rising  gale, 

Over  men's  hearts,  as  over  standing  corn. 

Rushes,  and  bends  them  to  its  own  strong  will. 

So  shall  some  thought  of  mine  yet  circle  earth, 

And  puff  away  thy  crumbling  altars,  Jove! 

And,  wouldst  thou  know  of  my  supreme  revenge. 
Poor  tyrant,  even  now  dethroned  in  heart, 
Realmless  in  soul,  as  tyrants  ever  are. 
Listen !  and  tell  me  if  this  bitter  peak. 
This  never-glutted  vulture,  and  these  chains 
Shrink  not  before  it;  for  it  shall  befit 
A  sorrow-taught,  imconquered  Titan-heart. 
Men,  when  their  death  is  on  them,  seem  to  stand 
On  a  precipitous  crag  that  overhangs 
The  abyss  of  doom,  and  in  that  depth  to  see, 
As  in  a  glass,  the  features  dim  and  vast 
Of  things  to  come,  the  shadows,  as  it  seems. 
Of  what  have  been.     Death  ever  fronts  the  wise  ; 
Not  fearfully,  but  with  clear  promises 
Of  larger  life,  on  whose  broad  vans  upborne. 
Their  out-look  widens,  and  they  see  beyond 
The  horizon  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
Even  to  the  very  source  and  end  of  things. 
Such  am  I  now:  immortal  woe  hath  made 
My  heart  a  seer,  and  my  soul  a  judge 
Between  the  substance  and  the  shadow  of  Truth. 
The  sure  supremeness  of  the  Beautiful, 
By  all  the  martyrdoms  made  doubly  sure 
Of  such  as  I  am,  this  is  my  revenge, 
"Which  of  my  wrongs  builds  a  triumphal  arch, 
Through  which  I  see  a  sceptre  and  a  throne. 
The  pipings  of  glad  shepherds  on  the  hills. 
Tending  the  flocks  no  more  to  bleed  for  thee, — 
The  songs  of  maidens  pressing  with  white  feet 
The  vintage  on  thine  altars  pouicd  no  more, — 


The  murmurous  bliss  of  lovers,  underneath 

Dim  grape-vine  bowers,  whose  rosy  bunches  press 

Not  half  so  closely  their  warm  cheeks,  unchecked 

By  thoughts  of  thy  brute  lust, — the  hive  like  hum 

Of  peaceful  commonwealths,  where  sunburnt  Toil 

Reaps  for  itself  the  rich  earth  made  its  own 

By  its  own  labor,  lightened  with  glad  hymns 

To  an  omnipotence  which  thy  mad  bolts 

Would  cope  with  as  a  spark  with  the  vast  sea, — 

Even  the  spirit  of  free  love  and  peace. 

Duty's  sure  recompense  through  life  and  death, — 

These  are  such  harvests  as  all  master-spirits 

Reap,  haply  not  on  earth,  but  reap  no  less 

Because  the  sheaves  are  bound  by  hands  not  theirs ; 

These  are  the  bloodless  daggers  wherewithal 

They  stab  fallen  tyrants;  this  their  high  revenge: 

For  their  best  part  of  life  on  earth  is  when, 

Long  after  death,  prisoned  and  pent  no  more. 

Their  thoughts,  their  wild  dreams  even,  have  become 

Part  of  the  necessary  air  men  breathe; 

When,  like  the  moon,  herself  behind  a  cloud, 

They  shed  down  light  before  us  on  life's  sea. 

That  cheers  us  to  steer  onward  still  in  hope. 

Earth  with  her  twining  memories  ivies  o'er 

Their  holy  sepulchres;  the  chainless  sea. 

In  tempest  or  wide  calm,  repeats  their  thoughts  ; 

The  liglitning  and  the  thunder,  all  free  things. 

Have  legends  of  them  for  the  ears  of  men. 

All  other  glories  are  as  falling  stars, 

But  universal  Nature  watches  theirs  : 

Such  strength  is  won  by  love  of  human  kind. 

Not  that  I  feci  that  hunger  after  fame, 
\\'hich  souls  of  a  half-greatness  are  beset  with; 
But  that  the  memory  of  noble  deeds 
Cries,  shame  upon  the  idle  and  the  vile, 
And  keeps  the  heart  of  Man  for  ever  up 
To  the  heroic  level  of  old  time. 
To  be  forgot  at  first  js  little  pain 
To  a  heart  conscious  of  such  high  intent 
As  must  be  deathless  on  the  lips  of  men  ; 
But,  having  been  a  name,  to  sink  and  be 
A  something  which  the  world  can  do  without, 
\\  hich,  having  been  or  not,  would  never  change 
The  lightest  pulse  of  fate, — this  is  indeed 
A  cup  of  bitterness  the  worst  to  taste, 
And  this  thy  heart  shall  empty  to  the  dregs. 
Endless  despair  ^hall  be  thy  Caucasus, 
And  memory  thy  vulture;  thou  wilt  find 
Oblivion  far  lonelier  than  this  peak, — 
Behold  thy  destiny  !     Thou  think'st  it  much 
That  I  should  brave  thee,  miserable  god! 
But  I  have  braved  a  mightier  than  thou. 
Even  the  tempting  of  this  soaring  heart, 
Which  might  have  made  me,  scarcely  less  than  thou, 
.'\  god  among  my  brethren  weak  and  blind, — 
Scarce  less  than  thou,  a  pitiable  thing 
To  be  down-trodden  into  darkness  soon. 
But  now  I  am  above  thee,  for  thou  art 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


227 


Thebungling  workmanship  of  fear,  the  block 
That  awes  the  swart  Barbarian  ;  but  I 
Am  what  myself  have  made, — a  nature  wise 
With  finiling  in  itself  the  types  of  all, — 
With  watching  from  the  dim  verge  of  the  time 
What  things  to  be  are  visible  in  the  gleams 
Thrown  forward  on  them  from  the  luminous  past, — 
Wise  with  the  history  of  its  own  frail  heart, 
With  reverence  and  sorrow,  and  with  love, 
Broad  as  the  world,  for  freedom  and  for  man. 


Thou  and  all  strength  shall  crumble,  except  Love, 
By  whom,  and  for  whose  glory,  ye  shall  cease: 
And,  when  thou  art  but  a  dim  moaning  heard 
From  out  the  pitiless  glooms  of  Chaos,  I 
Shall  be  a  power  and  a  memory, 
A  name  to  fright  all  tyrants  with,  a  light 
Unsetting  as  the  pole-star,  a  great  voice 
Heard  in  the  breathless  pauses  of  the  fight 
By  truth  and  freedom  ever  waged  with  wrong, 
Clear  as  a  silver  trumpet,  to  awake 
Huge  echoes  that  from  age  to  age  live  on 
In  kindred  spirits,  giving  them  a  sense 
Of  boundless  power  from  boundless  suffering  wrung: 
And  many  a  glazing  eye  shall  smile  to  see 
The  memory  of  my  triumph,  ffor  to  meet 
Wrong  with  endurance,  arid  to  overcome 
The  present  with  a  heart  that  looks  beyond, 
Are  triumph),  like  a  prophet  eagle,  perch 
Upon  the  sacred  banner  of  the  Right. 
Evil  springs  up,  and  flowers,  and  bears  no  seed. 
And  feeds  the  green  earth  with  its  swift  decay, 
Leaving  it  richer  for  the  growth  of  truth  ; 
Bnt  Good,  once  put  in  action  or  in  thought. 
Like  a  strong  oak,  doth  from  its  boughs  shed  down 
The  ripe  germs  of  a  forest.     Thou,  weak  god, 
Shalt  fade  and  be  forgotten  !  but  this  soul, 
Fresh  living  still  in  the  serene  abyss. 
In  every  heaving  shall  partake,  that  grows 
From  heart  to  heart  among  the  sons  of  men, — 
As  the  ominous  hum  before  the  earthquake  runs 
Far  through  the  ^gean  from  roused  isle  to  isle, — 
Foreboding  wreck  to  palaces  and  shrines, 
And  mighty  rents  in  many  a  cavernous  error 
That  darkens  the  free  light  to  man  : — This  heart, 
Unscarred  by  thy  griui  vulture,  as  the  truth 
Grows  but  more  lovely  'neath  the  beaks  and  claws 
Of  Harpies  blind  that  fain  would  soil  it,  shall 
In  all  the  throbbing  exultations  share 
That  wait  on  freedom's  triumphs,  and  in  all 
The  glorious  agonies  of  martyr-spirits, — 
Sharp  lightning-throes  to  split  the  jagged  clouds 
That  veil  the  future,  showing  them  the  end, — 
Pain's  thorny  crown  for  constancy  and  truth, 
Girding  the  temples  like  a  wreath  of  stars. 
This  is  a  thought,  that,  like  the  fabled  laurel, 
Makes  my  faith  thunder-proof;  and  thy  dread  bolts 
Fall  on  me  like  the  silent  flakes  of  snow 
On  the  hoar  brows  of  aged  Caucasus: 


I'ut,  0  thought  far  more  blissful,  they  can  rend 
This  cloud  of  flesh,  and  make  my  soul  a  star! 

Unleash  thy  crouching  thunders  now,  0  Jove! 
Free  this  high  heait,  which,  a  poor  captive  long, 
Doth  knock  to  be  let  forth,  this  heart  which  still 
In  its  invincible  manhood,  overtops 
Thy  puny  godship,  as  this  mountain  doth 
The  pines  that  moss  its  roots.     0,  even  now, 
While  from  my  peak  of  sufl'ering  I  look  down, 
Beholding  with  a  far-spread  gush  of  hope 
The  sunrise  of  that  Beauty,  in  whose  face. 
Shone  all  around  with  love,  no  man  shall  look 
But  straightway  like  a  god  he  is  uplift 
Unto  the  throne  long  empty  for  his  sake. 
And  clearly  oft  foreshadowed  in  wide  dreams 
By  his  free  inward  nature,  which  nor  thou, 
Nor  any  anarch  after  thee,  can  bind 
From  working  its  great  doom,  — now,  now  set  free 
This  essence,  not  to  die,  but  to  become 
Part  of  that  awful  Presence  which  doth  haunt 
The  palaces  of  tyrants,  to  hunt  ofl^, 
With  its  grim  eyes  and  fearful  whisperings 
And  hideous  sense  of  utter  loneliness. 
All  hope  of  safety,  all  desire  of  peace. 

All  but  the  loathed  forefeeling  of  blank  death, 

Part  of  that  spirit  which  doth  ever  brood 

In  patient  calm  on  the  unpilfered  nest 

Ofman's  deep  heart,  till  mighty  thoughts  grow  fledged 

To  sail  with  darkening  shadow  o'er  the  world, 

Filling  with  dread  such  souls  as  dare  not  trust 

In  the  unfailing  energy  of  Good, 

Until  they  swoop,  and  their  pale  quarry  make 

Of  some  o'erbloated  wrong, — that  spirit  which 

Scatters  great  hopes  in  the  seed  field  of  man, 

Like  acorns  among  grain,  to  grow  and  be 

A  roof  for  freedom  in  all  coming  time! 

But  no,  this  cannot  be ;  for  ages  yet. 
In  solitude  unbroken,  shall  f  hear 
The  angry  Caspian  to  the  Euxine  shout, 
And  Euxine  answer  with  a  muffled  roar, 
On  either  side  storming  the  giant  walls 
Of  Caucasus  with  leagues  of  climbing  foam, 
(Less,  from  my  height,  than  flakes  of  downy  snow,) 
That  draw  back  baflled  but  to  hurl  again. 
Snatched  up  in  wrath  and  horrible  turmoil. 
Mountain  on  mountain,  as  the  Titans  erst, 
My  brethren,  scaling  the  high  seat  of  Jove, 
Heaved  Pelion  upon  Ossa's  shoulders  broad 
In  vain  emprise.     The  moon  will  come  and  go 
With  her  monotonous  vicissitude; 
Once  beautiful,  when  I  was  free  to  walk 
Among  my  fellows,  and  to  interchange 
The  influence  benign  of  loving  eyes. 
But  now  by  aged  use  grown  wearisome;  — 
False  thought !  most  false  !  for  how  could  I  endure 
These  crawling  centuries  oX  lonely  woe 
Unshamed  by  weak  complaining,  but  for  thee 


228 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


Loneliest,  save  me,  of  all  created  things, 
Mild-eyed  Aslarte,  my  best  comforter, 
With  thy  pale  smile  of  sad  benignity  ? 

Year  after  year  will  pass  away  and  seem 
To  me,  in  mine  eternal  agony, 
But  as  the  shadows  of  dumb  summer-clouds, 
Whii-h  I  have  watched  so  often  darkening  o'er 
The  vast  Sarmatian  plain,  league-wide  at  first. 
But,  with  still  swiftness,  lessening  on  and  on 
Till  cloud  and  shadow  meet  and  mingle  where 
The  gray  horizon  fades  into  the  sky. 
Far,  far  to  northward.     Yes,  for  ages  yet 
Nlust  I  lie  here  upon  my  altar  huge, 
A  sacrifice  for  man.     Sorrow  will  be, 
As  it  hath  been,  his  portion;  endless  doom, 
While  the  immortal  with  the  mortal  linked 
Dreams  of  its  wings  and  pines  for  what  it  dreams. 
With  upward  yearn  unceasing.     Better  so: 
For  wisdom  is  meek  sorrow's  patient  child, 
And  empire  over  self,  and  all  the  deep 
Strong  charities  that  make  men  seem  like  gods; 
And  love,  that  makes  them  be  gods,  from  her  breasts 
Sucks  in  the  milk  that  makes  mankind  one  blood. 
Good  never  comes  unmixed,  or  so  it  seems, 
Having  two  faces,  as  some  images 
Are  carved,  of  foolish  gods;  one  face  is  ill; 
But  one  heart  lies  beneath,  and  that  is  good. 
As  are  all  heart?,  when  we  e.xplore  their  depths. 
Therefore,  great  heart,  bear  up!   thou  art  but  type 
Of  what  all  lofty  spirits  endure,  that  fain 
Would  win  men  back  to  strength  and  peace  through 

love  : 
Each  hath  his  lonely  peak,  and  on  each  heart 
Envy,  or  scorn,  or  hatred,  tears  lifelong 
With  vulture  beak;  yet  the  high  soul  is  left; 
And  faith,  which  is  but  hope  grown  wise  ;  and  dove ; 
And  patience,  which  at  last  shall  overcome. 


HOPE. 

BY    RICHARD    PENN    SMITH. 

Hope  in  the  young  heart  springeth 
As  flowers  in  the  infant  year; 

Hope  in  the  young  heart  s,ingeth, 
As  birds  when  the  flowers  appear. 

Hope  in  the  old  heart  dieth. 
As  wither  those  early  flowers; 

Hope  from  the  old  heart  flieth. 
As  the  birds  from  wintry  bowers. 

But  Spring  will  revive  the  flowers; 

And  the  birds  return  to  sing  ; 
And  Death  will  renew  Hope's  powers 

In  the  old  heart  withering. 


TKOM  LONGFELLOW'S  HYPERION. 

.^nd  yet,  if  you  look  closely  at  the  causes  of 
these  calamities  of  authors,  you  will  find,  that  many 
of  them  spring  from  false  and  exaggerated  ideas  of 
poetry  and  the  poetic  character;  and  from  disdain 
of  common  sense,  upon  which  all  character,  worth 
having,  is  founded.  'J'his  comes  from  keeping  aloof 
from  the  vvorld,  apart  from  our  fellow-men  ;  dis- 
dainful of  society,  as  frivolous  By  too  much  sil- 
ting still  the  body  becomes  unhealthy;  and  soon  the 
mind.  This  is  nature's  law.  She  will  never  see 
her  children  wronged.  If  the  mind,  which  rules 
the  body,  ever  forgets  itself  so  far  as  to  trample 
upon  its  slave,  the  slave  is  never  generous  enough 
to  forgive  the  injury;  but  will  rise  and  smite  its 
oppressor.  '1  bus  has  many  a  monarch  riiind  been 
dethroned. 

LITERARY    FAME. 

Time  has  a  Doomsday-Book,  upon  whose  pages 
he  is  continually  recording  illustrious  names.  But, 
as  often  as  a  new  name  is  written  there,  an  old  one 
disappears.  Only  a  few  stand  in  illuminated  cha- 
racters, never  to  be  effaced.  These  are  the  high 
nobility  of  Nature, — Lords  of  the  Public  Domain  of 
'i'hought.  Posterity  shall  never  question  their  titles. 
But  those,  whose  fame  lives  only  in  the  indiscreet 
opinion  of  unwise  men,  must  soon  be  as  well  for- 
gotten, as  if  they  had  never  been.  To  this  great 
oblivion  must  most  men  come.  It  is  better,  there- 
fore, that  they  should  soon  make  up  their  minds  to 
this:  well  knowing,  that,  as  their  bodies  must  ere 
long  be  resolved  into  dust  again,  and  their  graves 
tell  no  tales  of  them;  so  must  their  names  likewise 
be  utterly  forgotten,  and  their  most  cherished 
thoughts,  purposes,  and  opinions  have  no  longer  an 
individual  being  among  men  ;  but  be  resolved  and  in- 
corporated into  the  universe  of  thought.  If,  then, 
the  imagination  can  trace  the  noble  dust  of  heroes, 
till  we  find  it  stopping  a  beer-barrel,  and  know  that 

Imperial  Ctesar,  dead  and  turned  to  claj, 
May  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  8wa.y:" 

not  less  can  it  trace  the  noble  thoughts  of  great  men, 
till  it  finds  them  mouldered  into  the  common  dust 
of  conversation,  and  used  to  stop  men's  mouths,  and 
patch  up  theories,  to  keep  out  the  flaws  of  opinion. 
Such,  for  example,  are  all  popular  adages  and  wise 
proverbs,  which  are  now  resolved  into  the  comuion 
mass  of  thought ;  their  authors  forgotten,  and  having 
no  more  an  individual  being  among  men. 

It  is  better,  therefore,  that  men  should  soon  make 
up  their  minds  to  be  forgotten,  and  look  about  them, 
or  within  them,  for  some  higher  motive,  in  what 
they  do,  than  the  approbation  of  men,  which  is 
Fame;  namely,  their  duty;  that  they  should  be  con- 
stantly and  quietly  at  work,  each  in  his  sphere,  re- 
gardless of  effects,  and  leaving  their  fame  to  take 
care  of  itself.     Difficult  must  this  indeed  be,  in  our 


VOICES    OF     THE  TRUE- HEARTED. 


229 


imperfection;  impossible  perhaps  to  achieve  it 
wholly.  Yet  the  resolute,  the  indomitable  will  of 
man  can  achieve  much, — at  times  even  this  victory- 
over  himself;  being  persuaded,  that  fame  comes  only 
when  deserved,  and  then  is  as  inevitable  as  destiny, 
for  it  is  destiny. 

It  has  become  a  common  saying,  that  men  of 
genius  are  always  in  advance  of  their  age;  which  is 
true.  There  is  'something  equally  true,  yet  not  so 
common  ;  namely,  that,  of  these  men  of  genius,  the 
best  and  bravest  are  in  advance  not  only  of  their 
own  age,  but  of  every  age.  As  the  German  prose- 
poet  says,  every  possible  future  is  behind  them. 
We  cannot  suppose,  that  a  period  of  time  will  ever 
come,  when  the  world,  or  any  considerable  portion 
of  it  shall  have  come  up  abreast  with  these  great 
minds,  so  as  fully  to  comprehend  them. 

And  oh!  how  majestically  they  walk  in  history; 
some  like  the  sun,  with  all  his  travelling  glories 
round  him ;  others  wrapped  in  gloom,  yet  glorious 
as  a  night  with  stars.  Through  the  else  silent 
darkness  of  the  past,  the  spirit  hears  their  slow  and 
solemn  footsteps.  Onward  they  pass,  like  those 
hoary  elders  seen  in  the  sublime  vision  of  an  earthly 
Paradise,  attendant  angels  bearing  golden  lights  be- 
fore themj  and,  above  and  behind,  the  whole  air  paint- 
ed with  seven  listed  colors,  as  from  the  trail  of  pencils! 

And  yet,  on  earth,  these  men  were  not  happy, — 
not  all  happy,  in  the  outward  circumstance  of  their 
lives.  They  were  in  v^ant,  and  in  pain,  and  fa- 
miliar with  prison-bars,  and  the  damp,  weeping 
walls  of  dungeons !  Oh,  I  have  looked  with  wonder 
upon  those,  who,  in  sorrow  and  privation,  and  bodily 
discomfort,  and  sickness,  which  is  the  shadow  of 
death,  have  worked  right  on  to  the  accomplishment 
of  their  great  purposes;  toiling  much,  enduring 
much,  fulfilling  much; — and  then,  with  shattered 
nerves,  and  sinews  all  unstrung,  have  laid  them- 
selves down  in  the  grave,  and  slept  the  sleep  of 
death, — and  the  world  talks  of  them,  while  they  sleep! 

It  would  seem,  indeed,  as  if  all  their  sufferings 
had  but  sanctified  them  !  As  if  the  death-angel,  in 
passing,  had  touched  them  with  the  hem  of  his  gar- 
ment, and  made  them  holy  !  As  if  the  hand  of  dis- 
ease had  been  stretched  out  over  them  only  to  make 
the  sign  of  the  cross  upon*their  souls  !  And  as  in 
the  sun's  eclipse  we  can  behold  the  great  stars 
shining  in  the  heavens,  so  in  this  life-eclipse  have 
these  men  beheld  the  lights  of  the  great  eternity, 
burning  solemnly  and  for  ever  ! 

THE    scholar's    HOME. 

But  to  resume  our  old  theme  of  scholars  and 
their  whereabout,  *  *  *  where  should  the 
scholar  live?  In  solitude  or  in  society?  In  the 
green  stillness  of  the  country,  where  he  can  hear 
the  heart  of  nature  beat,  or  in  the  dark,  gray  city, 
where  he  can  hear  and  feel  the  throbbing  heart  of 
man  ?     I  will  make  answer  for  him,  and  say,  in  the 


dark,  gray  city.  Oh,  they  do  greatly  err,  who 
think,  that  the  stars  are  all  the  poetry  which  cities 
have;  and  therefore  that  the  poet's  only  dwelling 
should  be  in  sylvan  solitudes,  under  the  green  roof 
of  trees.  Beautiful,  no  doubt,  are  all  the  forms  of 
Nature,  when  transfigured  by  the  miraculous  power 
of  poetry;  hamlets  and  harvest-fields,  and  nut-brown 
waters,  flowing  ever  under  the  forest,  vast  and 
shadowy,  with  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  rural  life. 
But  after  all,  what  are  these  but  the  decorations  and 
painted  scenery  in  the  great  theatre  of  human  life  ? 
What  are  they  but  the  coarse  materials  of  the  poet's 
song?  Glorious  indeed  is  the  world  of  God  around 
us,  but  more  glorious  the  world  of  God  within  us. 
There  lies  the  Land  of  Song;  there  lies  the  poet's 
native  land.  The  river  of  life,  that  flows  through 
streets  tumultuous,  bearing  along  so  many  gallant 
hearts,  so  many  wrecks  of  humanity ;— the  many 
homes  and  households,  each  a  little  world  in  itself, 
revolving  round  its  fireside,  as  a  central  sun;  all 
forms  of  human  joy  and  suffering,  brought  into  that 
narrow  compass  ; — and  to  be  in  this  and  be  a  part  of 
this;  acting,  thinking,  rejoicing,  sorrowing,  with 
his  fellow-men ; — such,  such  should  be  the  poet's 
life.  If  he  would  describe  the  world,  he  should  live 
in  the  world.  The  mind  of  the  scholar,  also,  if  you 
would  have  it  large  and  liberal,  should  come  in  con- 
tact with  other  minds.  It  is  better  that  his  armour 
should  be  somewhat  bruised  even  by  rude  en- 
counters, than  hang  forever  rusting  on  the  wall. 
Nor  will  his  themes  be  few  or  trivial,  because  ap- 
parently shut  in  between  the  walls  of  houses,  and 
having  merely  the  decorations  of  street  scenery.  A 
ruined  character  is  as  picturesque  as  a  ruined  castle. 
There  are  dark  abysses  and  yawning  gulfs  in  the 
human  heart,  which  can  be  rendered  passable  only 
by  bridging  them  over  with  iron  nerves  and  sinews, 
as  Challey  bridged  the  Savine  in  Switzerland,  and 
Telford  the  sea  between  Anglesea  and  England,  with 
chain  bridges.  These  are  the  great  themes  of  hu- 
man thought;  not  green  grass,  and  flowers,  and 
moonshine.  Besides,  the  mere  external  forms  of 
Nature  we  make  our  own.  and  carry  with  us  into 
the  city,  by  the  power  of  memory. 

I  fear,  however,  interrupted  Elemming,  that 
in  cities  the  soul  of  man  grows  proud.  He  needs  at 
times  to  be  sent  forth,  like  the  Assyrian  monarch, 
into  green  fields,  '  a  wonderous  wretch  and  weed- 
less,'  to  eat  green  herbs,  and  be  wakened  and  chas- 
tised by  the  rain-shower  and  winter's  bitter  weather. 
Moreover,  in  cities  there  is  danger  of  the  soul's  be- 
coming wed  to  pleasure,  and  forgetful  of  its  high 
vocation.  There  have  been  souls  dedicated  to  hea- 
ven from  childhood  and  guarded  by  good  angels  as 
sweet  seclusions  for  holy  thoughts,  and  prayers,  and 
all  good  purposes;  wherein  pious  wishes  dwelt  like 
nuns,  and  every  image  was  a  saint ;  and  yet  in  life's 
vicissitudes,  by  the  treachery  of  occasion,  by  the 
thronging   passions   of  great    citieS;    have    become 


230 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


soiled  and  sinful.  They  resemble  those  convents 
on  the  river  Rhine,  which  have  been  changed  to 
taverns ;  fronn  whose  chambers  the  pious  inmates 
have  long  departed,  and  in  whose  cloisters  the  foot- 
steps of  travellers  have  effaced  the  images  of  buried 
saints,  and  whose  walls  are  written  over  with  ribaldry 
and  the  names  of  strangers,  and  resound  no  more  with 
holy  hymns,  but  with  revelry  and  loud  voices. 

Both  town  and  country  have  their  dangers,  said 
the  Baron ;  and  therefore,  wherever  the  scholar 
lives,  he  must  never  forget  his  high  vocation.  Other 
artists  give  themselves  up  wholly  to  the  study  of 
their  art.  It  becomes  with  them  almost  religion.  For 
the  most  part,  and  in  their  youth,  at  least,  they  dwell 
in  lands,  where  the  whole  atmosph('re  of  the  soul  is 
beauty ;  laden  with  it  as  the  air  may  be  with  vapor, 
till  their  very  nature  is  saturated  with  the  genius  of 
their  art.  Such,  for  example,  is  the  artist's  life  in 
Italy. 

I  agree  with  you,  exclaimed  Flemming;  and 
such  should  be  the  Poet's  everywhere;  for  he  has  his 
Rome,  his  Florence,  his  whole  glowing  Italy  within 
the  four  walls  of  his  library.  He  has  in  his  books 
the  ruins  of  an  antique  world, — and  the  glories  of  a 
modern  one, — his  Apollo  and  'I'ransfiguration.  He 
must  neither  forget  nor  undervalue  his  vocation  ;  but 
thank  God  that  he  is  a  poet ;  and  everywhere  be  true 
to  himself,  and  to  '  the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine' 
he  feels  within  him. 

But,  at  any  rate,  a  city  life  is  most  eventful, 
continued  the  Baron.  The  men  who  make,  or 
take,  the  lives  of  poets  and  scholars,  always  com- 
plain that  these  lives  are  barren  of  incidents.  Hardly 
a  literary  biography  begins  without  some  such 
apology,  unwisely  made.  I  confess,  however,  that 
it  is  not  made  without  some  show  of  truth ;  if,  by 
incidents,  we  mean  only  those  startling  events, 
which  suddenly  turn  aside  the  stream  of  Time,  and 
change  the  world's  history  in  an  hour.  There  is 
certainly  a  uniformity,  pleasing  or  unpleasing,  in 
literary  life,  which  for  the  most  part  makes  to-day 
seem  twin-born  with  yesterday.  But  if,  by  inci- 
dents, you  mean  events  in  the  history  of  the  human 
mind,  (and  why  not?)  noiseless  events,  that  do  not 
scar  the  forehead  of  the  world  as  battles  do,  yet 
change  it  not  the  less,  then  surely  the  lives  of  lite- 
rary men  are  most  eventful.  The  complaint  and 
the  apology  are  both  foolish.  I  do  not  see  why  a 
successful  book  is  not  as  great  an  event  as  a  success- 
ful campaign;  only  different  in  kind,  and  not  easily 
compared. 

Indeed,  interrupted  Flemming,  in  no  sense  is 
the  complaint  strictly  true,  though  at  times  ap- 
parently so.  Events  enough  there  are,  were  they  all 
set  down.  A  life,  that  is  worth  writing  at  all,  is 
worth  writing  minutely.  Besides,  all  literary  men 
have  not  lived  in  silence  and  solitude ; — not  all  in 
stillness,  not  all  in  shadow.  For  many  have  lived 
in  troubled  times,  in   the  rude  and  adverse  fortunes 


of  the  state  and  age,  and  could  say  with  Wallenstein' 

'  Our  life  was  but  a  baUle  and  a  march; 

Ami,  like  llii-  wind's  blast,  never-resting,  homeless, 

We  stormed  across  the  war- convulsed  earth.' 

Of  such  examples  history  has  recorded  many  ;  Dante, 
Cervantes,  Byron,  and  others ;  men  of  iron  ;  men 
who  have  dared  to  breast  the  strong  breath  of  public 
opinion,  and,  like  spectre-ships,  come  sailing  right 
against  the  wind.  Others  have  been  puffed  out  by 
the  first  adverse  wind  that  blew;  disgraced  and  sor- 
rowful, because  they  could  not  please  others.  Truly 
'  the  tears  live  in  an  onion,  that  should  water  such 
a  sorrow.'  Had  they  been  men,  they  would  have 
made  these  disappointments  their  best  friends,  and 
learned  from  them  the  needful  lesson  of  self-re- 
liance. 

To  confess  the  truth,  added  the  Baron,  the 
lives  of  literary  men,  with  their  hopes  and  disap- 
pointments, and  quarrels  and  calamities,  present 
a  melancholy  picture  of  man's  strength  and  weak- 
ness. On  that  very  account  the  scholar  can  make 
them  profitable  for  encouragement, — consolation, — 
warning. 

And  after  ail,  continued  Flemming,  perhaps 
the  greatest  lesson,  which  the  lives  of  literary  men 
teach  us,  is  told  in  a  single  word;  Wait  I — Every 
man  must  patiently  bide  his  time.  He  must  wait. 
More  particularly  in  lands,  like  my  native  land, 
where  the  pulse  of  life  beats  with  such  feverish  and 
impatient  throbs,  is  the  lesson  needful.  Our  national 
character  wants  the  dignity  of  repose.  We  seem  to 
live  in  the  midst  of  a  battle, — there  is  such  a  din, — 
such  a  hurrying  to  and  fro.  In  the  streets  of  a 
crowded  city  it  is  difficult  to  walk  slowly.  You  feel 
the  rushing  of  the  crowd,  and  rush  with  it  onward. 
In  the  press  of  our  life  it  is  difficult  to  be  calm.  In 
this  stress  of  wind  and  tide,  all  professions  seem  to 
drag  their  anchors,  and  are  swept  out  into  the  main. 
The  voices  of  the  Present  say.  Come!  But  the 
voices  of  the  Past  say.  Wait!  With  calm  and  so- 
lemn footsteps  the  rising  tide  bears  against  the  rush- 
ing torrent  up  stream,  and  pushes  back  the  hurrying 
waters.  With  no  less  calm  and  solemn  footsteps, 
nor  less  certainly,  does  a  great  mind  bear  up  against 
public  opinion,  and  push  back  its  hurrying  stream. 
Therefore  should  every  gnan  wait;  —  should  bide  his 
time.  Not  in  listless  idleness, — not  in  useless  pas- 
time,— not  in  querulous  dejection;  but  in  constant 
steady,  cheerful  endeavours,  always  willing  and  ful- 
filling, and  accomplishing  his  task,  that,  when  the 
occasion  comes,  he  may  be  equal  to  the  occasion. 
And  if  it  never  comes,  what  matters  it  ?  What  mat- 
ters it  to  the  world  whether  I,  or  you,  or  another 
man  did  such  a  deed,  or  wrote  such  a  book,  sobeit 
the  deed  and  book  were  well  done  !  It  is  the  past 
of  an  indiscreet  and  troublesome  ambition,  to  care 
too  much  about  fame, — about  what  the  world  says 
of  us.  To  be  always  looking  into  the  faces  of  others 
for  approval ; — to  be  always  anxious  for  the  effect 


VOICES   OF   THE   T  R  U  E  -HEAR  'J'  E  D. 


231 


of  what  we  do  and  say ;  to  be  always  shouting  to 
hear  the  echo  of  our  own  voices!  If  you  look  about 
you,  you  will  see  men,  who  are  wearing  life  away 
in  feverish  anxiety  of  fame,  and  the  last  we  shall 
ever  hear  of  them  will  be  the  funeral  bell,  that  tolls 
them  to  their  early  graves !  Unhappy  men,  and  un- 
successful !  because  their  purpose  is,  not  to  accom- 
plish well  their  task,  but  to  clutch  the  '  trick  and 
fantasy  of  fame' ;  and  they  go  to  their  graves  with 
purposes  unaccomplished  and  wishes  unfulfilled. 
Better  for  them,  and  for  the  world  in  their  example, 
had  they  known  how  to  wait!  Believe  me,  the 
talent  of  success  is  nothing  more  than  doing  what 
you  can  do  well;  and  doing  well  whatever  you 
do, —  without  a  thought  of  fame.  If  it  come  at  all, 
it  will  come  because  it  is  deserved,  not  because  it 
is  sought  after.  And,  moreover,  there  will  be  no 
misgivings, — no  disappointment, — no  hasty,  fever- 
ish, exhausting  excitement. 

SPRING    IN    HEIDELBERG. 

It  was  a  sweet  carol,  which  the  Rhodian  children 
sang  of  old  in  Spring,  bearing  in  their  hands,  from 
door  to  door,  a  swallow,  as  herald  of  the  season; 

"  The  Swallow  is  come! 
The  Swallow  is  come! 
O  fair  are  the  seasons,  and  light 
Are  the  days  that  she  brings, 
With  her  dusky  wings, 
And  her  bosom  snowy  white." 

A  pretty  carol,  too,  is  that,  which  the  Hungarian 
boys,  on  the  islands  of  the  Danube,  sing  to  the  re- 
turning stork  in  Spring ; 

"Stork!    Stork!   poor  Stork! 
Why  is  thy  foot  so  bloody? 
A  Turkish  boy  hath  torn  it; 
Hungarian  boy  will  heal  it, 
With  fiddle,  fife,  and  drum." 

But  what  child  has  a  heart  to  sing  in  this  capri- 
cious clime  of  ours,  where  Spring  comes  sailing  in 
from  the  sea,  with  wet  and  heavy  cloud-sails,  and 
the  misty  pennon  of  the  East-wind  nailed  to  the 
mast!  Yet  even  here,  and  in  the  stormy  month  of 
March  even,  there  are  bright,  warm  mornings,  when 
we  open  our  windows  to  inhale  the  balmy  air.  The 
pigeons  fly  to  and  fro,  and  we  hear  the  whirring 
sound  of  wings.  Old  flies  crawl  out  of  the  cracks, 
to  sun  themselves;  and  think  it  is  summer.  They 
die  in  their  conceit;  and  so  do  our  hearts  within  us, 
when  the  cold  sea-breath  comes  from  the  eastern 
sea;  and  again, 

"  Tlie  driving  hail 

Upon  the  window  beats  with  icy  flail." 

The  red-flowering  maple  is  first  in  blossom,  its 
beautiful  purple  flowers  unfolding  a  fortnight  before 
the  leaves.  The  moose-wood  follows,  with  rose- 
colored  buds  and  leaves ;  and  the  dog-wood,  robed 
in  the  white  of  its  own  pure  blossoms.  Then  comes 
the  sudden  rain-storm ;  and  the  birds  fly  to  and  fro, 
and  shriek.  Where  do  they  hide  themselves  in  such 
storms?  at  what  firesides  dry  their  feathery  cloaks 


At  the  fireside  of  the  great,  hospitable  sun,  to-mor- 
row, not  before ; — they  must  sit  in  wet  garments 
until  then. 

In  all  climates  Spring  is  beautiful.  In  the  South 
it  is  intoxicating,  and  sets  a  poet  beside  himself. 
The  birds  begin  to  sing ; — they  utter  a  few  rapturous 
notes,  and  then  wait  for  an  answer  in  the  silent 
woods.  Those  green-coated  musicians,  the  frogs, 
make  holiday  in  the  neighbouring  marshes.  They, 
too,  belong  to  the  orchestra  of  Nature ;  whose  vast 
theatre  is  again  opened,  though  the  doors  have  been 
so  long  bolted  with  icicles,  and  the  scenery  hung 
with  snow  and  frost,  like  cobwebs.  This  is  the 
prelude,  which  announces  the  rising  of  the  broad 
green  curtain.  Already  the  grass  shoots  forth. 
The  waters  leap  with  thrilling  pulse  through  the 
veins  of  the  earth  ;  the  sap  through  the  veins  of  the 
plants  and  trees ;  and  the  blood  through  the  veins  of 
man.  What  a  thrill  of  delight  in  spring-time! 
What  a  joy  in  being  and  moving  !  Men  are  at  work 
in  gardens ;  and  in  the  air  there  is  an  odor  of  the 
fresh  earth.  The  leaf-buds  begin  to  swell  and 
blush.  The  white  blossoms  of  the  cherry  hang  upon 
the  boughs  like  snow-flakes ;  and  ere  long  our  next- 
door  neighbours  will  be  completely  hidden  from  us 
by  the  dense  green  foliage.  The  May-flowers  open 
their  soft  blue  eyes.  Children  are  let  loose  in  the 
fields  and  gardens.  They  hold  butter-cups  under 
each  others'  chins,  to  see  if  they  love  butter.  And 
the  little  girls  adorn  themselves  with  chains  and 
curls  of  dandelions;  pull  out  the  yellow  leaves  to 
see  if  the  schoolboy  loves  them,  and  blow  the  down 
from  the  leafless  stalk,  to  find  out  if  their  mothers 
want  them  at  home. 

And  at  night  so  cloudless  and  so  still.  Not  a 
voice  of  living  thing, — not  a  whisper  of  leaf  or 
waving  bough, — not  a  breath  of  wind, — not  a  sound 
upon  the  earth  nor  in  the  air !  And  overhead  bends 
the  blue  sky,  dewy  and  soft,  and  radiant  with  innu- 
merable stars,  like  the  inverted  bell  of  some  blue 
flower,  sprinkled  with  golden  dust,  and  breathing 
fragrance.  Or  if  the  heavens  are  overcast,  it  is  no 
wild  storm  of  wind  and  rain;  but  clouds  that  melt 
and  fall  in  showers.  One  does  not  wish  to  sleep; 
but  lies  awake  to  hear  the  pleasant  sound  of  the 
dropping  rain. 

man's  DESTINY. 

Just  observe  what  a  glorious  thing  human  life  is, 
when  seen  in  this  light;  and"*- how  glorious  man's 
destiny.  I  am  ;  thou  art;  he  is  I  seems  but  a  school- 
boy's conjugation.  But  therein  lies  a  great  mystery. 
These  words  are  significant  of  much.  We  behold 
all  round  about  us  one  vast  union,  in  which  no  man 
can  labor  for  himself  without  laboring  at  the  same 
time  for  all  others :  a  glimpse  of  truth,  which  by  the 
universal  harmony  of  things  becomes  an  inward 
benediction,  and  lifts  the  soul  mightily  upward. 
I  Still  more  so,  when  a  man  regards  himself  as  a  ne- 


^ 


232 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


cessary  member  of  this  union.  The  feeling  of  our 
dignity  ami  our  power  grows  strong,  when  we  say 
to  ourselves  ;  My  being  is  not  objectless  and  in  vain  ; 
I  am  a  necessary  link  in  the  great  chain,  which, 
from  the  full  developement  of  consciousness  in  the 
first  man,  reaches  forward  into  eternity.  All  the 
great,  and  wise,  and  good  among  mankind,  all  the 
benefactors  of  the  human  race,  whose  names  I  read 
in  the  world's  history,  and  the  still  greater  number 
of  those,  whose  good  deeds  have  outlived  their 
names, — all  those  have  labored  for  me.  I  have  en- 
tered into  their  harvest.  I  walk  the  green  earth, 
which  they  inhabited.  I  tread  in  their  footsteps, 
from  which  blessings  grow.  I  can  undertake  the 
sublime  task,  which  they  once  undertook,  the  task 
of  making  our  common  brotherhood  wiser  and  hap- 
pier. I  can  build  forward,  where  they  were  forced 
to  leave  off;  and  bring  nearer  to  perfection  the  great 
edifice  which  they  left  uncompleted.  And  at  length 
I,  too,  must  leave  it,  and  go  hence.  0,  this  is  the 
sublimest  thought  of  all !  I  can  never  finish  the 
noble  task;  therefore,  so  sure  as  this  task  is  my 
destiny,  1  can  never  cease  to  wori<,  and  consequently 
never  cease  to  be.  What  men  call  death  cannot 
break  off  this  task,  which  is  never  ending;  conse- 
quently no  period  is  set  to  my  being,  and  1  am 
eternal.  I  lift  my  head  boldly  to  the  threatening 
monntain-peai\S,  and  to  the  roaring  cataract,  and  to 
the  storm-clouds  swimming  in  the  fire-sea  overhead 
and  say ;  I  am  eternal,  and  defy  your  power  !  Break, 
break  over  me !  and  thou  Earth,  and  thou  Heaven, 
mingle  in  the  wild  tumult !  and  ye  Elements  foam 
and  rage,  and  destroy  this  atom  of  dust, — this  body, 
which  I  call  mine !  My  will  alone,  with  its  fixed 
purpose,  shall  hover  brave  and  triumphant  over  the 
ruins  of  the  universe;  for  I  have  comprehended  my 
destiny;  and  it  is  more  durable  than  ye!  It  is 
eternal ;  and  I,  who  recognise  it,  I  likewise  am 
eternal  I 


Far  from  our  ranks  be  that  timid  sentiment  of 
Erasmus,  <>  Peaceful  error  is  better  than  boisterous 
truth."  That  was  the  shrinking  sensitiveness  of  a 
secluded  student,  whom  the  rough  sounds  of  free 
discussion  had  never  hardened  into  manly  vigor,  and 
hopeful  quiet  trust  in  the  power  of  truth.  Better, 
far  better,  the  heroic  advice  of  old  Bancreldt,  free- 
dom's martyr,  "  Peace,  if  possible,  but  truth  at  any 
rate." — Wendell  Phillips. 

They  are  indeed  long  shadows,  and  their  evening 
sunshine  lies  cold  upon  the  earth;  but  they  all  point 
toward  the  morning. — Jeax  Paul. 

It  is  ever  to  the  injury  of  essentials,  that  the 
mind  of  man  is  preoccupied  with  secondary  matter. 

How  often  was  I  not  forced  in  bitterness  of  heart 
to  say,  >  1  must  tread  the  wine-press  alone?' 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL. 


EY  JOHN  G.  WHITTIEE. 


She  sings  by  her  wheel,  at  that  low  cottage-door. 
Which  the  long  evening  shadow  is  stretching  before, 
With  a  music  as  sweet  as  the  music  which  seems 
Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear  of  our  dreams! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light  of  her  eye, 
Like  a  star  glancing  out  from  the  blue  of  the  sky! 
And  lightly  and  freely  her  dark  tresses  play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely  as  they ! 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low  cottage-door — 
The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble  and  poor? 
'Tis  the  great  Southern  planter — the  master  who 

waves 
His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds  of  slaves. 

"Nay,  Ellen — for  shame!     Let  those  Yankee  fools 

spin. 
Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with  a  change  of  their 

skin; 
Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom  or  the  wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar  to  feel ! 

But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious  a  gem 
To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and  sullied  by  them — 
For  shame,  Ellen,  shame! — cast  thy  bondage  aside, 
And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  blessing  and  pride. 

Oh,  come  where  no  winter  thy  footsteps  can  wrong, 
But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all  the  year  long, 
Where  the  shade  of  the  palm  tree  is  over  my  home, 
And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white  in  their  bloom  ! 

Oh,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  servants  shall  all 

Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy  call ; 

They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with  trembling  and 

awe, 
.\nd  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt  as  a  law." 

Oh,  could  ye  have  seen  her — that  pride  of  our  girls — 
Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth  of  her  curls, 
With  a  scorn  in  her  eye  which  the  gazer  could  feel. 
And  a  glance  like  the  sunshine  that  flashes  on  steel! 

"  Go  back,  haughty  Southron  !  thy  treasures  of  gold 
Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts  thou  hast  sold  ; 
Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it  I  hear 
The  crack  of  the  vhip  and  the  footsteps  of  fear  1 

And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be  brighter  than  ours. 
And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and  fairer  thy  flowers;  ■ 
But,  dearer    the  blast  round  our  mountains  which 

raves, 
Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which  breathes  over 

slaves ! 

Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes  may  kneel, 
AVith  the  iron  of  bondage  on  spirit  and  heel; 
Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner  would  be 
In  fitters  with  them,  than  in  freedom  with  thee/'' 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


233 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 

BY    JOHN    G.    WUITTIER. 

soIaldl^ighLVorrrieloT  r,T  T'^lf  r™"'"'"'*^''' ''''"' '"  '"«  ''■^'-^  »f  P'^itar,  intolerance.  Two  young  persons, 
having  enterfained  w  gX^  :  Is",:  ,:;  '"''"";  "'"V"  '"?  '""''"  '"""'"""'^  ^"'  "^""-'^  °^  «"  ^'«  P-P"'^-  ^- 
unable  to  pay.     The  case  be  n^  "n  1       ,    ,7' T"  ''"""'''  '""'   ''"  '"'"-'t-^Jance  at    church-wbich   the;,  were 

g.u.stl,  adviser  J  ndnsencefc^^  ^  '''"7'  "^""J':'  '''^^'""'  '''^'  '""^■'  '"  "'''■'"••"-  '"  '^^  -.pcBt.onfof  it. 
of  Kdward  Raw.  „,  Sec";  bVwhfc  U  7  "  "^'^?' ^'''^^  "^'-"-^  ^""  ^«  ^^  -  "-  "-t  .ecorde,  bearing  the  signature 
oHhe  English  nati.  „  at  SI  Tr  «  ,     T""  """'^  ^"'  "  '""^  ^-P'-^^ed  to  sell  the  said  p.-rson^  to  an^ 

into  e.ecuion.  but  no  s..  ;  fXl  f  t'-'n  ""'""  '"'  '"'""  ^"  ""^"P'  "''^  """"^  '"  -"^  "-  '-'-<-  -der 
G.  Bishop.  «'"P-<-t<.r  was  found  w.lln.g  to  conve,  tb-.n  to  the  West  Indi,.s.-F/,/e  Sewall's  History,  pp.  2«-6. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise  to-day, 
^rom  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  he  hath  plucked  the  spoil  away,— 
^ea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faithful  three, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  his  handmaid  free! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  prison-bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale  gleam  of  stars, 
in  the  coldness  and  the  darkness,  all  through  the  long  night  time, 
My  grated  casement  whitened  with  Autumn's  early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept  by ; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown  the  sky; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which  seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea. 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the  morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in  my  sorrow ; 
Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained  for  and  sold. 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer  from  the  fold ! 

Oh,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there— the  shrinking  and  the  shame ; 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers  to  me  came  : 
"Why  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly!"  the  wicked  murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth  thy  maiden  bed  ? 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft  and  sweet, 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the  pleasant  street? 
Where  be  the  youths,  whose  glances  the  summer  Sabbath  through 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's  pew  ? 

"  Why  sit'st  thou  here  Cassandra  ?— Bethink  thee  with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm  bright  hearth; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble,  on  foreheads  white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden  hair. 

"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for  thee  kind  words  are  spoken, 
Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  laughing  boys  are  broken. 
No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  %  lap  are  laid. 
For  thee  no  ilowers  of  Autumn  the  youthful  hunters  braid. 

"  0 !  weak,  deluded  maiden  !— by  crazy  fancies  led. 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to  tread ; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure  and  sound, 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and  sackcloth-bound; 

"  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at  things  divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and  wine ; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from  the  pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  in  their  shame. 

30 


234  VOICES    OF  THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


«<  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee  ? — a  sadly  toiling  slave, 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bondage  to  the  grave! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in  hopeless  thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all !" 

Oh !  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  Nature's  fears 
Wrung,  drop  by  drop,  the  scalding  flow  of  unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in  silent  prayer, 
To  feel,  oh  Helper  of  the  weak  !— that  Thou  indeed  wert  there ! 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippi's  cell, 
And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the  prison  shackles  fell. 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's  robe  of  white. 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies! — for  the  peace  and  love  I  felt, 
Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my  spirit  melt ; 
When  "Get  behind  me  Satan  !"  was  the  language  of  my  heart, 
And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his  doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  grey  cold  morning;  again  the  sunshine  fell, 
Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate,  within  my  lonely  cell; 
The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward  from  the  street, 
Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of  passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was  open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side  up  the  long  street  I  passed. 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared  not  see, 
How  from  every  door  and  window  the  people  gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me;  shame  burned  upon  my  cheek; 
Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling  limbs  grew  weak; 
"  Oh  Lord,  support  thy  handmaid,  and  from  her  soul  cast  out 
The  fear  of  man  which  brings  a  snare,  the  weakness  and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shailows  scattered  like  a  cloud  in  morning  breeze, 
And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whispering  words  like  these 
"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven  a  brazen  wall, 
Trust  still  His  loving  kindness  whose  power  is  over  all."' 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sun-lit  waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly  wall  of  rock; 
The  merchant  ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard  clear  lines  on  high. 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar,  their  net-work  on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapped  and  grave  and  cold, 
.\nd  grim  and  stout  sea-captains,  with  faces  bronzed  and  old. 
And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk,  at  hand. 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the  land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words,  the  ruler's  ready  ear. 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh,  and  scoff,  and  jeer; 
It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the  seal  of  silence  broke. 
As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning  spirit  spoke. 

I  cried  <'The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter  of  the  meek, 
'J'hou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thoutrampler  of  the  weak! 
Go  light  the  dark  cold  hearth-stones— go  turn  the  prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf  amid  tiie  flock!" 


VOICES    OF    THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


235 


Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Eiidicott,  and  with  a  deeper  red 

O'er  Rawsoti's  wine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush  of  anger  spread  • 

"Good  people,"  quoth  the  white-lipped  priest,  "heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 

Her  Master  speaks  within  her — the  Devil  owns  his  child." 

But  grey  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the  while  the  sheriff  read 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have  made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Kimmon  and  idol  priesthood  bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff  turning  said; 

"  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this  Quaker  maid? 

In  the  isle  of  far  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's  shore, 

Ye  may  hold  her  at  higher  price  than  Indian  girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains ;  and  when  again  he  cried, 
"  Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  !" — no  voice  nor  sign  replied ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind  words  met  my  ear ; 
"  God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle  girl  and  dear !" 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart, — a  pitying  friend  was  nigh, 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it  in  his  eye ; 
And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so  kind  to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea : 

"  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver— pack  with  coins  of  Spanish  gold. 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God,  who  made  me — I  would  sooner  in  your  bay 
Sink  ship,  and  crew,  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child  away !" 

"Well  answered,  worthy  captain;  shame  on  their  cruel  laws'." 
Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the  people's  just  applause. 
<'Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old. 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  silver  sold?" 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott;  with  weapon  half-way  drawn, 
Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion-glare  of  bitter  hate  and  scorn; 
Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,  and  turned  in  silence  back. 
And  sneering  priest,  and  baffled  clerk,  rode  murmuring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness  of  soul; 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and  crushed  his  parchment  roll; 
"  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "  since  both  have  fled,  the  ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye  if  from  their  farther  work  I  be  not  well  released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which  full  and  clear  swept  round  the  silent  bay. 
As  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks  he  bade  me  go  my  way; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of  the  glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the  hearts  of  men. 

Oh,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed  beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill,  and  stream  and  woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters  of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  ! — to  Him  all  praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  his  handmaid  free; 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the  mighty  are  afraid. 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare  which  for  the  poor  is  laid ! 


236 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


Sing,  oh,  my  soul,  rejoicingly;  on  evening's  twilight  calm, 
Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving — pour  forth  the  grateful  psalm; 
Let  all  dear  saints  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the  saints  of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued  Peter  told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty  men  of  wrong  I 

The  Lord  shall  smite  their  pride  and  break  the  jaw-teeth  of  the  strong 

Wo  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  His  avenging  hour ! 

Wo  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flock  to  raven  and  devour! 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise, — the  poor  in  heart  be  glad ; 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of  praise  be  clad, 
For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed  the  stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to  save! 


'JHE  IIVDL\N  GIRL'S  BURIAL. 


By  LYDIA   H.  SIGOURKEY. 


A  voice  upon  the  prairies, 

A  cry  of  woman's  woe, 
That  mingleth  with  the  autumn  blast 

All  fitfully  and  low. 
It  is  a  mother's  wailing  ! — 

Hath  Earth  another  tone 
Like  that  with  which  a  mother  mourns 

Her  lost,  her  only  one? — 

Pale  faces  gather  round  her, 

They  mark  the  storm  swell  hi-jh 
That  rends  and  wrecks  the  tossing  soul. 

But  their  cold,  blue  eyes  are  dry. 
Pale  faces  gaze  upon  her, 

As  the  wild  winds  caug'  t  her  moan, — 
But  she  was  an  Indian  mother, 

So  she  wept  her  tears  alone. 

Long,  o'er  that  wasting  idol, 

She  watch'd  and  toil'd  and  pray'd, 
Though  every  dreary  dawn  revealed 

Some  ravage  death  had  made, 
Till  the  fleshless  sinews  started, 

And  hope  no  opiate  gave, 
And  hoarse  and  h  How  grew  her  voice, 

An  echo  from  the  grave. 

She  was  a  gentle  creature. 

Of  raven  eye  and  Iress, 
And  dovelike  were  the  tones  that  brcath'd 

Her  bosom's  tenderness. 
Save  when  some  quick  emotion 

The  warm  blood  strongly  sent, 
To  revel  in  her  olive  cheek, 

So  richly  eloquent. 


I  said  Consumption  smote  her, 

And  the  healer's  art  was  vain ; 
But  she  was  an  Indian  maiden. 

So  none  deplored  her  pain ; 
None  save  that  widow'd  mother, 

Who  now  by  her  open  tomb, 
Is  writhing  like  the  smitten  wretch. 

Whom  judgment  marks  for  doom. 

Alas  !  that  lowly  cabin, 

That  bed  beside  the  wall, 
That  seat  beneath  the  mantling  vine, 

Thsy're  lone  and  empty  all. 
What  hand  shall  pluck  the  tall  green  corn 

That  ripeneth  on  the  plain, 
Since  she  for  whom  the  board  was  spread 

Must  ne'er  return  again  1 

Rest,  rest,  thou  Indian  maiden. 

Nor  let  thy  murmuring  shade 
Grieve  that  those  pale-brow'd  ones  with  scorn 

Thy  burial-rite  survey'd ; 
There's  many  a  king  whose  fr.neral 

A  black  rob'd  realm  shall  see. 
For  whom  no  tear  of  grief  is  shed 

Like  that  which  falls  for  thee. 

Yea,  rest  thee  forest  maiden. 

Beneath  thy  native  tree  ! 
The  proud  may  boast  their  little  day, 

'J'hen  sink  to  dust  like  thee, — 
But  there's  many  a  one  whose  funeral 

With  nodding  plumes  may  be, 
^\  hom  nature  nor  affection  mourn, 

As  here  they  mourn  for  thee. 


VOICES    OF     THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


237 


NEVER   DESPAIR. 


The  Words  of  tlie  Ovcrromcr  to  oiif  wlio  said,  "  I  am  weary  ; 
1  would  that  I  were  dead." 


Fainting  pilgrim,  soon  grown  -weary, 
I  have  M-ords  of  cheer  for  thee  ; 

All  thy  pathway,  cold  and  dreary, 
Hath  been  early  trod  by  me. 

Dearest  joys,  when  scarcely  tasted, 
Have  been  snatched  from  thee  away ; 

Golden  hopes  have  quickly  wasted 
In  the  conflict  of  thy  day, — 

Yet  hast  thou  exceeding  treasnre. 

In  that  bosom  lone  and  bare, 
Sunken  hope,  and  shadowed  pleasure, 

Unexpiring,  slumber  there ; 

Though  thy  pathway  darkness  hideth, 
These  shall  brighten  o'er  the  storm  ; 

Only  where  the  tempest  rideth, 
Doth  the  rainbow  bend  its  form. 

On  the  faded  joys  thou  cherished, 
Joys  shall  spring  for  coming  hours  ; 

Soils  whereon  the  verdure  perished. 
Yield  again  the  richest  flowers. 

All  the  love  thy  heart  has  given, 

Shall  return  to  gladden  thee, 
Like  the  dew  that  flies  to  heaven ! 

Like  the  bread  cast  on  the  sea  ! 

E'en  in  death  it  shall  not  languish ; 

Young  and  sweet  a  brow  I  see. 
Calm,  as  when  midst  parting  anguish. 

Pure,  her  blessing  fell  on  me ; 

And  when  life  is  load-like  pressing. 
And  my  spirit  yearns  for  rest, 

Sweetly  comes  that  strengthening  blessing 
Angel-like,  unto  my  breast. 

Courage,  then,  oh  !  sad  wayfarer ! 

Grasp  the  shield  of  faith  once  more  ; 
Ever  yet,  the  trusting  wearer 

Eetter  days  hath  found  in  store  : 

Resolutely  upward  turning 
From  thy  anguish  and  despair, 

Thine  extending  gaze  discerning. 
What  was  dark  and  hidden  there, — 

Conflicts  stern,  and  dread  accounted. 
Shall  below  thy  footsteps  lay. 

Ladder-rounds,  whereon  thou  mounted, — 
Stepping-stones,  upon  thy  way. 


A  REQUIEM. 

BY  JAMES  EfSSELL  LOWELL. 

Ay,  pale  and  silent  maiden. 

Cold  as  thou  liest  there. 
Thine  was  the  sunniest  nature 

That  ever  drew  the  air, 
The  wildest  and  most  wayward. 

And  yet  so  gently  kind. 
Thou  seemedst  but  to  body 

A  breath  of  summer  wind. 

Into  the  eternal  shadow 

That  girds  our  life  around. 
Into  the  infinite  silence 

Wherewith  Death's  shore  is  bound, 
Thou  hast  gone  forth,  beloved  ! 

And  I  were  mean  to  weep, 
That  thou  hast  left  Life's  shallows 

And  dost  possess  the  Deep. 

Thou  liest  low  and  silent. 

Thy  heart  is  cold  and  still, 
Thine  eyes  are  shut  for  ever. 

And  Death  hath  had  his  will ; 
He  loved  and  would  have  taken, 

I  loved  and  would  have  kept ; 
We  strove, — and  he  was  stronger, 

And  I  have  never  wept. 

Let  him  possess  thy  body, 

Thy  soul  is  still  with  me. 
More  sunny  and  more  gladsome 

Than  it  was  wont  to  be  : 
Thy  body  was  a  fetter 

That  bound  me  to  the  flesh; 
Thank  God  that  it  is  broken. 

And  now  I  live  afresh  ! 

Now  I  can  see  thee  clearly  ; 

The  dusky  cloud  of  clay, 
That  hid  thy  starry  spirit. 

Is  rent  and  blown  away : 
To  earth  I  give  thy  body, 

Thy  spirit  to  the  sky  ; 
I  saw  its  bright  wings  growing, 

And  knew  that  thou  must  fly. 

Now  I  can  love  thee  truly, 

For  nothing  comes  between 
The  senses  and  the  spirit. 

The  seen  and  the  unseen ; 
Lifts  the  eternal  shadow. 

The  silence  bursts  apart. 
And  the  soul's  boundless  future 

Is  present  in  my  heart. 


238 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


A  MAN'S  A  MAN.  FOR  A'  THAT. 

BY  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty, 

Wha  Imngs  his  head  ami  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave  we  pass  him  by, 

And  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp. 

The  man's  the  gowd,  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden  grey,  and  a'  that? 
Gie  fools  their  silk,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man's  a  man,  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that; 
An  honest  man,  though  ne'er  sae  poor, 

Is  chief  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts  and  stares,  and  a'  that, 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word. 

He's  but  a  cuif  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  ribband,  star,  and  a'  that; 
A  man  of  independent  mind. 

Can  look,  and  laugh  at  a'  that. 

The  king  can  mak'  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that, 
An  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Gude  faith  he  manna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  dignities  and  a'  that ! 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  grander  far  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may. 

As  come  it  shall  for  a'  that ; 
That  sense  and  worth  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

Shall  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that ; 
Whan  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be,  and  a'  that. 


FOOTSTEPS    OF    ANGELS. 

BY  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 

And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted. 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Dance  upon  the  parlour  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted. 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  peri.shed, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life  I 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly. 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given. 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes. 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer. 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended. 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

0,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside. 

If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 


That  which  thou  with  truckling  spirit, 

Bending  to  the  crowd  shall  say, 
Dust  and  darkness  shall  inherit. 

Time  shall  hurl  like  chaff  away — 
But  the  silent  earnest  thought, 
To  thine  inmost  nature  taught. 
Shall  not  fade  away  to  nought. 


Longings  in  deep  anguish  working. 
Powers  like  sudden  flames  that  start, 

And  though  baflled,  still  stay  lurking. 
Are  the  seedfields  unto  art : 

Thence  npsprings  its  glorious  flower 

In  its  will  appointed  hour. 

And  to  heaven  itself  doth  tower. 

AV.M.  W.  Story. 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


239 


LINES, 

Written  on  reading  several  pamphlets  2inhlislie(l  hy 
clergymen  against  the  abulitiun  of  the  gallows. 

Bt  JOHN  a.   WIITTTIER. 

The  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have  shone 

Since  the  Redeemer  walked  with  men,  and  made 

The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor  of  stone. 
And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for  His  head ; 

And  He,  who  wander'd  wilh  the  peasant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread  of  shame. 
And  drank,  with  blessings  in  His  Father's  name, 

The  water  which  Samaria's  outcast  drew, 

Hath  now  His  temples  upon  every  shore. 

Altar,  and  shrine,  and  priest — and  incense  dim 
Evermore  rising,  with  low  prayer  and  hymn, 

From  lips  which  press  the  temple's  marble  floor. 

Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread  Cross  He  bore  ! 

Yet,  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  "doing  good," 
He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude. 
And  even  the  poor  companions  of  His  lot. 
With  their  dim,  earthly  vision,  knew  Him  not, 

How  ill  are  His  high  teachings  understood  ! 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the  priest 

At  His  own  altar  binds  the  chain  anew; 
Where  He  hath  bidden   to  life's  equal  feast. 

The  starving  many  wait  upon  the  few  ; 
Where  He  hath  spoken  peace.  His  name  hath  been 
Tlie  loudest  war-cry  of  contending  men ; 
Priests,  pale  with  vigils,  in  His  name  have  blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the  spear  in  rest. 
Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred  wine, 
And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy  sign ; 
Yea,  in  His  name  who  bade  the  erring  live. 
And  daily  taught  His  lesson — to  forgive! 

Twisted  the  cord,  and  edged  the  murderous  steel; 
And,  with  His  words  of  mercy  on  their  lips. 
Hung  gloating  o'er  the  pincer's  burning  grips, 

And  the  grim  horror  of  the  straining  wheel ; 
Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the  victim's  limb. 
Who  saw  before  his  searing  eye-balls  sw'im 

The  image  of  their  Christ,  in  cruel  zeal. 
Through  the  black  torment-smoke,  held  mockingly 
to  him  I 

The  blood  which  mingled  with  the  desert  sand. 
And  beaded  with  its  red  and  ghastly  dew, 

The  vines  and  olives  of  the  Holy  Land — 
The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted  Jew — 

The  white-sown  bones  of  heretics,  where'er 

They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy  spear — 

Goa's  dark  dungeons — Malta's  sea-washed  cell, 
Where  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly  fathers  sung. 
Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  torture  wrung, 

Heaven's  anthem  blending  with  the  shriek  of  Hell! 

The  midnight  of  Bartholomew — the  stake 


Of  Smithfield,  and  that  thrice-accursed  flame 
Which  Calvin  kindled  by  Geneva's  lake — 
New  England's  scaffold,  and  the  priestly  sneer 
Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour  of  fear, 
When  guilt  itself  a  human  tear  might  claim — 
Bear  witness,  O  Thou  wronged  and  merciful  One! 
That  earth's  most  hateful  crimes  have  in  Thy  name 
been  done ! 

Thank  God  !  that  I  have  lived  to  see  the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last  to  find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart  of  mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  all  rkvenge  is  crime  ! 
That  man  is  holier  than  a  creed — that  all 

Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his  good, 
Hope's  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison  wall, 

And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 
The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Saviour  taught 
Through  long,  dark  centuries,  its  way  has  wrought 
Into  the  common  mind  and  popular  thought; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake  shore 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed  oar, 
Have  found  an  echo  in  the  general  heart. 
And  of  the  public  faith  become  a  living  part. 

Who  shall  arrest  this  tendency?     Bring  back 
The  celfs  of  Venice  and  the  bigot's  rack? 
Harden  the  softening  human  heart  again, 
To  cold  indifference  to  a  brother's  pain"? 
Ye  most  unhappy  men  ! — who,  turn'd  away 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  gospel  day, 

Grope  in  the  shadows  of  man's  twilight  time, 
What  mean  ye,  that  with  ghoul-like  zest  ye  brood 
O'er  those  foul  altars  streaming  with  warm  blood, 

Permitted  in  another  age  and  clime? 
Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot  Jew 
Rebuked  the  Pagan's  mercy,  when  he  knew 
No  evil  in  the  Just  One? — Wherefore  turn 
To  the  dark,  cruel  past? — Can  ye  not  learn 
From  the  pure  Teacher's  life,  how  mildly  free 
Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity? 
The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,  and  no  more 
Mexitli's  altars  soak  with  human  gore  ; 
No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 
Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Druid's  oak; 
And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high  claim 
Of  prophet-utterance  in  the  Holiest  name, 
Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  our  time  ? 

Set  up  your  scaflx)ld- altars  in  our  land. 
And,  consecrators  of  law's  darkest  crime. 

Urge  to  its  loathsome  work  the  hangman's  hand? 
Beware — lest  human  nature,  roused  at  last. 
From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  incumbrance  cast. 

And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for  blood. 
Rank  you  with  those  who  led  their  victims  round 
The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's  mound, 
Abhorred  of  Earth   and  Heaven — a  pagan  brother- 
hood ! 


240 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


HUNGER    AND    COLD. 

BV  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL, 

Sisters  two,  all  praise  to  you, 
With  your  faces  pinched  and  blue; 
To  the  poor  man  ye've  been  true 

From  of  old  : 
Ye  can  speak  the  keenest  word, 
Ye  are  sure  of  being  heard, 
From  the  point  ye're  never  stirred, 

Hunger  and  Cold  I 

Let  the  Statesman  temporize ; 
Palsied  are  his  shifts  and  lies 
When  they  meet  your  blood-shot  eyes, 

Grim  and  bold ; 
Policy  ye  set  at  naught, 
In  their  traps  ye'U  not  be  caught, 
Ye're  too  honest  to  be  bought, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Bolt  and  bar  the  palace  door; 
While  the  mass  of  men  is  poor 
Naked  truth  grows  m.ore  and  more 

Uncontrolled ; 
Ye  had  nevet  yet,  I  guess, 
Any  praise  for  bashfulness. 
Ye  can  visit,  sans  court  dress, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

When  the  Toiler's  heart  ye  clutch, 
Conscience  is  not  valued  much. 
He  recks  not  a  bloody  smutch 

On  his  gold : 
Every  thing  to  you  defers. 
Ye  are  potent  reasoners, 
At  your  whisper  Treason  stirs, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Rude  comparisons  ye  draw, 
Words  refuse  to  sate  your  maw, 
Your  gaunt  limbs  the  cobweb  law 

Cannot  hold ; 
Ye're  not  clogged  with  foolish  pride. 
But  can  seize  a  right  denied, 
Somehow  God  is  on  your  side. 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Ye  respect  no  hoary  wrong 
More  for  having  triumphed  long; 
Its  past  victims,  haggard  throng. 

From  the  mould 
Ye  unbury  ;  swords  and  spears 
Weaker  are  than  poor  men's  tears, 
Weaker  than  your  bitter  jeers, 

Hunger  and  Cold  1 

Let  them  guard  both  hall  and  bower; 
Through  the  window  ye  will  glower, 
Patient  till  your  reckoning  hour 
Shall  be  lolled; 


Cheeks  are  pale,  but  hands  are  red, 
Guiltless  blood  may  chance  be  shed. 
But  ye  must  and  will  be  fed. 
Hunger  and  Cold ! 

God  has  plans  man  must  not  spoil. 
Some  were  made  to  starve  and  toil, 
Some  to  share  the  wine  and  oil. 

We  are  told : 
Devils'  theories  are  these, 
Stifling  hope  and  love  and  peace. 
Framed  your  hideous  lusts  to  please, 
Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Scatter  ashes  on  thy  head, 
Tears  of  burning  sorrow  shed. 
Earth !  and  be  thy  Pity  led 

To  Love's  fold ; 
Ere  they  block  the  very  door 
With  lean  corpses  of  the  poor, 
And  will  hush  for  naught  but  gore, — 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 


THINK  OF  OUR  COUNTRY'S  GLORY. 

BY   ELIZABETH    JI.    CHAKDLER, 

Think  of  our  country's  glory, 

All  dimmed  with  Afric's  tears — 
Her  broad  flag  stained  and  gory, 

With  the  hoarded  guilt  of  years! 
Think  of  the  frantic  mother, 

Lamenting  for  her  child, 
Till  falling  lashes  smother 

Her  cries  of  anguish  w-ild ! 

Think  of  the  prayers  ascending, 

Yet  shrieked,  alas,  in  vain. 
When  heart  from  heart  is  rending. 

Ne'er  to  be  joined  again  ! 
Shall  we  behold  unheeding, 

Life's  holiest  feelings  crushed? 
When  woman's  heart  is  bleeding, 

Shall  woman's  voice  be  hushed  ? 

0,  no !  by  every  blessing 

That  Heaven  to  thee  may  lend — 
Remember  their  oppression, 

Forget  not,  sister,  friend. 
Think  of  the  prayers  ascending, 

Yet  shrieked,  alas,  in  vain, 
VVhen  heart  from  heart  is  rending. 

Ne'er  to  be  joined  again  ! 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


THE  SILVER  TANKARD. 

On  a  slope  of  land  opening  itself  to  the  south,  in 
a  now  thickly  settled  town  in  the  State  of  Maine, 
some  hundred  and  more  years  ago,  stood  a  farm- 
house to  which  the  epithet  '•  comfortable"  might  be 
applied.  The  old  forest  came  down  to  the  back  of  it  ; 
in  front  were  cultivated  fields;  beyond  which  was 
ground  partially  cleared,  full  of  pine  stumps,  and 
here  and  there,  standing  erect,  the  giant  trunks  of 
trees  which  the  fire  had  scorched  and  blackened, 
though  it  had  failed  to  overthrow  them.  The  house 
stood  at  the  very  verge  of  the  settlement,  so  that 
from  it  no  other  cottage  could  be  seen  ;  the  nearest 
neighbor  was  distant  about  six  miles.  Daniel  Gor- 
don, the  owner  and  occupant  of  the  premises  we 
have  described,  had  chosen  this  valley  in  the  wilder- 
ness, a  wide,  rich  tract  of  land,  not  only  as  his 
own  home,  but,  prospectively  as  the  home  of  his 
children,  and  his  children's  children.  He  was 
willing  to  be  far  off  from  men,  that  his  children 
might  have  room  to  settle  around  him.  He  was 
looked  upon  as  the  rich  man  of  that  district,  well 
known  over  all  that  part  of  the  country.  His  house 
was  completely  finished,  and  was  large  for  the 
times,  having  two  stories  in  front  and  one  behind, 
with  a  long  sloping  roof;  it  seemed  as  if  it  leaned  to 
the  south,  to  offer  its  back  to  the  cold  winds  from 
the  northern  mountains.  It  was  full  of  the  coniforts 
of  life, — the  furniture  even  a  little  "  showy''  for  a 
Puritan  ;  and  when  the  table  was  set,  there  was,  to 
use  a  Yankee  phrase,  "  considerable"  silver  plate, 
among  which  a  large  tankard  stood  pre-eminent. — 
This  silver  had  been  the  property  of  his  father,  and 
was  brought  over  from  the  mother  country- 

Now  we  will  go  back  to  this  pleasant  valley  as  it 
was  on  a  bright  and  beautiful  morning  in  the  month 
of  June.  It  was  Siuiday  ;  and  though  early,  the 
two  sons  of  Daniel  Gordon  and  the  hired  man  had 
gone  to  meeting,  on  foot,  down  to  tiie  "  Land- 
ing," a  little  village  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  ten 
miles  distant.  Daniel  himself  was  standing  at  the 
door,  with  the  horse  and  chaise,  ready  and  waiting 
for  his  good  wife  who  had  been  somewhat  detained. 
He  was  standing  at  tlie  door-step  enjoying  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  morning,  with  a  little  pride  in  his  heart, 
perhaps,  as  he  cast  his  eye  over  the  extent  of  his 


possessions  spread  before  him.  At  that  instant  a 
neighbor,  of  six  miles'  distance,  rode  np  on  horse- 
back and  beckoned  to  him  from  the  gate  of  the  en- 
closure around  the  house. 

"  Good  morning,  neighbor  Gordon,"  said  he,  "  I 
have  come  out  of  my  way  in  going  to  meeting,  to 
tell  you  that  Tom  Smith — that  daring  thief — with 
two  others,  have  been  seen  prowling  about  in  these 
parts,  and  that  yoii'd  better  look  out,  lest  you  have 
a  visit.  I  have  got  nothing  in  my  house  to  bring 
them  there,  but  they  may  be  after  the  silver  tankard, 
neighbor,  and  the  silver  spoons.  I  have  often  told 
you  that  these  things  were  not  fit  for  these  new 
parts.  Tom  is  a  bold  fellow,  but  I  suppose  the 
fewer  he  meets  when  he  goes  to  steal  the  better. 
I  don't  think  it  safe  for  you  all  to  be  off  to  meeting 
to  da:y  :  but  I  am  in  a  hurry,  neighbor,  so  good-bye." 

This  communication  placed  our  friend  Daniel  in 
an  unpleasant  dilemma.  It  had  been  settled  that 
no  one  was  to  be  left  at  home  but  his  daughter 
Mehitable,  a  beautiful  little  girl,  about  nine  years 
old.  Shall  I  stay  or  go?  was  the  question.  Daniel 
was  a  Puritan;  he  had  strict  notions  of  the  duty  of 
worshipping  God  in  His  temple,  and  he  had  faith 
that  God  would  bless  him  only  as  he  did  his  duty ; 
but  then  he  was  a  father,  and  little  Hitty  was  the 
light  and  joy  of  his  eyes. 

But  these  Puritans  were  stem  and  unflinching. — 
He  soon  settled  the  point.  "  I  won't  even  take 
Hitty  with  me;  for 'twill  make  her  cowardly.  The 
thieves  may  not  come, — neighbor  Perkins  may  be 
mistaken;  and  if  they  do  come  to  my  house,  they 
will  not  hurt  that  child.  At  any  rate,  she  is  in  God's 
hands  ;  and  we  will  go  to  worship  Him,  who  never 
forsakes  those  who  put  their  trust  in  Him.  As  he 
settled  this,  the  little  girl  and  her  mother  stepped 
to  the  chaise  ;  the  father  saying  to  the  child,  "  If  any 
strangers  come,  Hitty,  treat  them  well.  We  can 
spare  of  our  abundance  to  the  poor.  What  is  silver 
and  gold,  when  we  think  of  God's  holy  word  ?" — 
With  these  words  on  his  lips  he  drove  off, — a  trou- 
bled man,  in  spite  of  his  religious  trust;  because  he 
left  his  daughter  in  the  wilderness  alone. 

Little  Hitty,  as  the  daughter  of  a  Puritan,  was 

strictly  brought  up  to  ob.serve  the  Lord's  day.     She 

knew  that  she  ought  to  return  to  the  house  ;   but 

nature,  for  this  once  at  lea>t,   got  the   better  of  her 

31 


242 


VOICES    OF   THE    T  R  U  E - H  E  A  R  T  E  D  . 


training.  "  No  harm,"  thought  ehe,  «<  to  see  the  brood 
of  chickens."  Nor  did  she,  when  she  had  given 
them  some  water,  go  into  the  house ;  but  loitered 
and  lingered,  hearing  the  robin  sing,  and  following 
with  her  eye  the  bob"lincoIn,  as  he  flitted  from  shrub 
to  shrub.  She  passed  almost  an  hour  out  of  the 
house,  because  she  did  not  want  to  be  alone  ;  and 
she  did  not  feel  alone  when  she  was  out  among  the 
birds,  and  was  gathering  here  and  there  a  little  wild 
flower.  But  at  last  she  went  in,  took  her  Bible, 
and  seated  herself  at  the  window,  sometimes  reading 
and  sometimes  looking  out. 

As  she  was  there  seated,  she  saw  three  men  com- 
ing up  towards  the  house,  and  she  was  right  glad  to 
see  them  ;  for  she  felt  lonely,  and  there  was  a 
dreary  long  day  before  her.  "  Father,"  thought  she, 
"  meant  something,  when  he  told  me  to  be  kind  to 
strangers.  I  suppose  he  expected  them.  I  wonder 
what  keeps  them  all  from  meeting.  Never  mind; 
they  shall  see  I  can  do  something  for  them,  if  I  am 
little  Hitty;"  so  putting  down  the  Bible,  she  ran  to 
meet  them,  happy,  confiding,  and  even  glad  that  they 
had  come,  irhe  called  to  them  to  come  ;  and  with- 
out waiting  for  them  to  speak,  she  called  to  them 
to  come  in  with  her,  and  said,  "  I  am  all  alone  ;  if 
mother  was  here  she  would  do  more  for  you,  but 
I  will  do  all  1  can  ;" — and  all  this  with  a  frank, 
loving  heart,  glad  to  do  good  to  others,  and  glad  to 
please  her  father,  whose  last  words  were,  to  spare 
of  their  abundance  to  the  weary  traveller. 

Smith  and  his  two  companions  entered.  Now  it 
was  neither  breakfast  time  nor  dinner  time,  but 
about  half  way  between  both;  yet  little  Hitty's 
head  was  full  of  the  direction,  "  spare  of  our  abun- 
dance;" and  almost  before  they  were  fairly  in  the 
house,  she  asked  if  she  should  get  them  something 
to  eat.  Smith  replied,  "  Yes,  I  will  thank  you,  my 
child,  for  we  are  all  hungry."  This  was  indeed  a 
civil  speech  for  the  thief,  who,  half  starved,  had 
been  lurking  in  the  woods  to  watch  his  chance  to 
steal  the  silver  tankard,  as  soon  as  the  men  folks 
had  gone  to  meeting.  "Shall  I  give  you  cold  vic- 
tuals, or  will  you  wait  till  I  can  cook  some  meat  ?" 
asked  Hitty.  "We  can't  wait,"  was  the  reply,  "give 
us  what  you  have  ready,  as  soon  as  you  can."  "  I 
am  glad  you  do  not  want  me  to  cook  for  you, — but 
I  would  do  it  if  you  did, — because  father  would 
rather  not  have  much  cooking  on  Sundays."  Then 
away  she  tripped  about,  making  her  preparation  for 
their  repast.  Smith  himself  helped  her  out  with  the 
table.  She  spread  upon  it  a  clean  white  cloth,  and 
placed  upon  it  the  silver  spoons  and  the  silver  tan- 
kard full  of  "  old  orchard,"  with  a  large  quantity  of 
wheaten  bread  and  a  dish  of  cold  meat.  I  don't 
know  why  the  silver  spoons  were  put  on, — perhaps 
little  Hitty  thought  they  made  tlio  table  look  pret- 
tier. After  all  was  done,  she  turned  to  Suiitii,  and 
with  a  courtesy  told  him  tliat  dinner  was  ready, 
'i'hc  child  had  been  so  busy  in  arranging  her  table, 


and  so  thoughtful  of  housewifery,  that  she  took  little 
or  no  notice  of  the  apptarsnce  ar.d  manners  of  her 
guests.  She  did  the  work  as  cheerily  and  freely, 
and  was  as  unembarrassed,  as  if  she  had  been  sur- 
rounded by  her  father  and  mother  and  brothers. 
One  of  the  thieves  sat  down  doggedly,  with  his 
hands  on  his  knees,  and  his  lace  down  almost  to  his 
hands,  looking  all  the  time  on  the  floor.  Another, 
a  younger  and  better  looking  man,  stood  confounded 
and  irresolute,  as  if  he  had  not  been  well  broken 
into  his  trade;  and  often  would  he  goto  the  window 
and  look  out,  keeping  his  back  to  the  child.  Smith, 
on  the  other  hand,  looked  unconcerned,  as  if  he  had 
quite  forgotten  his  purpose.  He  never  once  took 
his  attention  ofl^  the  child,  following  her  with  his 
eye  as  she  bustled  about  in  arranging  the  dinner 
table;  there  was  even  a  half  smile  on  his  face. 
They  all  moved  to  the  table.  Smith's  chair  at  the 
head,  one  of  his  companions  on  each  side,  the  child, 
at  the  foot,  standing  there  to  help  her  guests,  and  to 
be  ready  to  go  for  furtler  supplies  as  there  was  need. 
The  men  ate  as  hungry  men,  almost  in  silence; 
drinking  occasionally  from  the  silver  tankard. — 
V'^hen  they  had  done,  Smith  started  up  suddenly, 
and  said,  "Come!  let's  go."  "What?"  exclaimed 
the  older  robber,  "go  with  empty  hands  when  this 
silver  is  here."  He  seized  the  tankard.  "  Put  that 
down,"  shouted  Smith  ;  "  I'll  shoot  the  man  who 
takes  a  single  thing  from  this  house."  Poor  Hitty 
at  once  awoke  to  a  sense  of  the  character  of  her 
guests  ;  with  terror  in  her  face  and  yet  with  a  child- 
like frankness,  she  ran  to  Smith,  took  hold  of  his 
hand  and  looked  into  his  face,  as  if  she  felt  sure  that 
he  would  take  care  of  her. 

The  old  thief,  looking  to  his  young  companion, 
and  finding  he  was  ready  to  give  up  the  job,  and 
seeing  that  Smith  was  resolute,  put  down  the  tan- 
kard, growling  like  a  dog  which  has  had  a  bone 
taken  from  him.  "Fool!  catch  me  in  your  com- 
pany again  ;"  and  with  such  expressions  left  the 
house,  followed  by  the  other.  Smith  put  his  hand 
on  the  head  of  the  child  and  said,  "  Don't  be  afraid 
— stay  quiet  in  the  house — nobody  shall  hurt  3-ou." 
Thus 'ended  the  visit  of  the  thieves;  thus  God  pre- 
served the  property  of  those  who  had  put  their  trust 
in  him.  U  hat  a  story  had  the  child  to  tell  when 
the  family  came  home !  How  hearty  was  the 
thanksgiving  that  went  up  that  evening  from  the 
family  altar  ! 

A  year  or  two  after  this,  poor  Tom  Smith  was 
arrested  for  the  commission  of  some  crime,  was 
tried,  and  sentenced  to  be  executed.  Daniel  Gordon 
heard  of  this,  and  that  he  was  confined  in  a  jail  in 
the  seaport  town,  to  wait  for  the  dreadful  day  when 
he  was  to  be  hung  up  like  a  dog  between  heaven 
and  earth.  Gordon  could  not  keep  away  from  him  ; 
he  felt  drawn  to  him  for  the  protection  of  his  daugh- 
ter, and  went  down  to  see  him.  When  he  entered 
the  dungeon,  Smith  was  seated,   his  Aice  was  pale. 


VOICES   OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


243 


his  hair  tangled  and  matted  together, —  for  why- 
should  he  care  for  his  looks ;  there  was  no  other 
expression  in  his  countenance,  than  that  of  irritation 
from  being  intruded  upon,  when  he  wanted  to  hear 
nothing,  see  nothing  more  of  his  brother  man ;  he 
did  not  rise,  nor  even  look  up,  nor  return  the  salu- 
tation of  Gordon,  who  continued  to  stand  before 
him.  At  last,  as  if  wearied  beyond  endeavor,  he 
asked,  "  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  Can't  you  let 
me  alone,  even  here  ?" 

"I  come,"  said  Gordon,  <<  to  sec  you,  because 
my  daughter  told  me  all  you  did  for  her  when 
you " 

As  if  touched  to  the  heart,  Smith's  whole  appear- 
ance changed;  an  expression  of  deep  interest  came 
over  his  features  ;  he  was  altogether  another  man. 
The  sullen  indifference  passed  away  in  an  instant. 
"Are  you  the  father  of  that  little  girl  1 — Oh  what  a 
dear  child  she  is  !  Is  she  well  and  happy  ?  How  I 
love  to  think  of  her !  That's  one  pleasant  thing  I 
have  to  think  of.  For  once  I  was  treated  like  other 
men.  Could  I  kiss  her  once,  I  think  I  should  be 
happier."  In  this  hurried  manner  he  poured  out  an 
intensity  of  feeling,  little  supposed  to  lie  in  the 
bosom  of  a  condemned  felon. 

Gordon  remained  with  Smith,  whispered  to  him 
of  peace  beyond  the  grave  for  the  penitent,  smooth- 
ed in  some  degree  his  passage  through  the  dark  val- 
ley, and  did  not  return  to  his  family  until  Christian 
love  could  do  no  more  for  an  erring  brother,  on 
whom  scarcely  before  had  the  eye  of  love  rested  ; 
whose  hand  had  been  against  all  men,  because  their 
hands  had  been  against  him, 

I  have  told  the  story  more  at  length,  and  inter- 
woven some  unimportant  circumstances,  but  it  is 
before  you  substantially  as  it  was  related  to  me. — 
The  main  incidents  are  true ;  though,  doubtless,  as 
the  story  has  been  handed  down  from  generation  to 
generation,  it  has  been  colored  by  the  imagination. 
The  silver  tankard  as  an  heir  loom  has  descended  in 
the  family — the  property  of  the  daughter  named 
Mehitable,  and  is  now  in  the  possession  of  the  lady 
of  a  clergyman  in  Massachusetts. 

What  a  crowd  of  thoughts  do  these  incidents  cause 
to  rush  in  upon  the  mind !  How  sure  is  the  over- 
coming of  evil  with  good, — How  truly  did  Jesus 
Christ  know  what  is  in  the  heart  of  man, — How 
true  to  the  best  feelings  of  human  nature  are  even 
the  outcasts  of  society, — How  much  of  our  virtue 
do  we  owe  to  our  position  among  men, — How  incon- 
sistent with  Christian  love  is  it  to  put  to  death  our 
brother,  whose  crimes  arise  mainly  from  the  vices 
and  wrong  structure  of  society, —  How  incessant 
should  be  our  exertions  to  disseminate  the  truth, 
that  the  world  may  be  reformed,  and  the  law  of  love 
be  substituted  for  the  law  of  force.  The  reader  will 
not  however  need  our  help  to  make  the  right  use  of 
the  guarding  of  the  "silver  tankard,"  by  the  kind- 
ness and  innocence  of  a  child. 


POEMS  BY  MARY  HOWITT. 

A   FOREST   SCENE 

IN      THE      DAYS     OF     WICKLIFFE. 

A  little  child  she  read  a  book 

Beside  an  open  door  ; 
And,  as  she  read  page  after  page, 

She  wonder'd  more  and  more. 

Her  little  finger  carefully 

Went  pointing  out  the  place  ; — 

Her  golden  locks  hung  drooping  down, 
And  shadovv'd  half  her  face. 

The  open  book  lay  on  her  knee, 

Her  eyes  on  it  were  bent ; 
And  as  she  read  page  after  page, 

The  colour  came  and  went. 

She  sate  upon  a  mossy  stone 

An  open  door  beside  ; 
And  round,  for  miles  on  every  hand, 

Stretch'd  out  a  forest  wide. 

The  summer  sun  shone  on  the  trees, 

'Ihe  deer  lay  in  the  shade  ; 
And  overhead  the  singing  birds 

Their  pleasant  clamour  made. 

There  was  no  garden  round  the  house, 
And  it  was  low  and  small, — 

The  forest  sward  grew  to  the  door ; 
The  lichens  on  the  wall. 

There  was  no  garden  round  about, 
Yet  flowers  were  growing  free, 

The  cowslip  and  the  daffodil, 
Upon  the  forest-lea. 

The  butterfly  went  flitting  by, 

The  bees  were  in  the  flowers  ; 
But  the  little  child  sate  steadfastly, 

As  she  had  sate  for  hours. 
"  Why  sit  you  here,  my  little  maid  ?" 

An  aged  pilgrim  spake ; 
The  child  look'd  upward  from  her  book, 

Like  one  but  just  awake. 
Back  fell  her  locks  of  golden  hair, 

And  solemn  was  her  look, 
As  thus  she  answer'd,  witlessly, 

•  <  Oh,  sir,  I  read  this  book  !" 
"  And  what  is  there  within  that  book 

To  win  a  child  like  thee  ?— 
Up  !  join  thy  mates,  the  merry  birds. 

And  frolic  with  the  bee  !" 
"  Nay,  sir,  I  cannot  leave  this  book, 

I  love  it  more  than  play  ;— 
I've  read  all  legends,  but  this  one 

Ne'er  saw  I  till  this  day. 


244 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


<<  And  there  is  something  in  this  book, 

That  makes  all  care  be  gone. — 
And  yet  I  weep,  I  know  not  why, 

As  I  go  reading  on!" 

"Who  art  thou,  child,  that  thou  shouldst  read 

A  book  with  mickie  heed?  — 
Books  are  for  clerks — the  king  himself 

Hath  much  ado  to  read  1" 

"  My  father  is  a  forester — 

A  bowman  keen  and  good  ; — 
He  keeps  the  deer,  within  their  bound. 

And  worketh  in  the  wood. 

<<  My  mother  died  in  Candlemas, — 

The  flowers  are  all  in  blow 
Upon  her  grave  at  Allonby 

Down  in  the  dale  below." 

This  said,  unto  her  book  she  turn'd, 

As  steadfast  as  before  ; 
"  Nay,"  said  the  pilgrim,  "nay,  not  yet. 

And  you  must  tell  me  more. 

"  Who  was  it  taught  you  thus  to  read  ?'' 
"  Ah,  sir,  it  was  my  mother, — 

She  taught  me  both  to  read  and  spell — 
And  so  she  taught  my  brother ; 

('  My  brother  dwells  at  Allonby 

W^ith  the  good  monks  alway  ; 
And  this  new  book  he  brought  to  me, 

But  only  for  one  day. 

"  Oh,  sir,  it  is  a  wondrous  book. 

Better  than  Charlemagne, — 
And,  be  you  pleased  to  leave  me  now, 

ril  read  in  it  again  !" 

"  Nay,  read  to  me,"  the  pilgrim  said ; 

And  the  little  child  went  on 
To  read  of  Christ,  as  was  set  forth 

In  the  Gospel  of  Saint  .Tohn. 

On,  on  she  read,  and  gentle  tears 

Adown  her  cheeks  did  slide  ; 
The  pilgrim  sate,  with  bended  head, 

And  he  wept  at  her  side. 

"  I've  heard,"  said  he,  "  the  Archbishop, 
I've  heard  the  Pope  of  Rome, 

But  never  did  their  spoken  words 
Thus  to  my  spirit  come  ! 

"  The  book,  it  is  a  blessed  book! 

Its  name,  what  may  it  be? 
Said  she,  "  They  are  the  words  of  Chuist 

That  I  have  read  to  thee  ; 
Now  done  into  the  English  tongue 

For  folks  unlearned  as  we!" 


«'  Sancta  Maria !"  said  the  man, 

Our  canons  have  decreed 
That  this  is  an  unholy  book 

For  simple  folk  to  read  ! 

"  Sancta  Maria  !     Bless'd  be  God  ! 

Had  this  good  book  been  mine, 
I  need  not  have  gone  on  pilgrimage 

To  holy  Palestine ! 

':  Give  me  the  book,  and  let  me  read  ! 

My  soul  is  strangely  stirred; — 
They  are  such  words  of  love  and  truth 

As  ne'er  before  I  heard!" 

The  little  girl  gave  up  the  book. 

And  the  pilgrim,  old  and  brown. 
With  reverend  lips  did  kiss  the  page, 
Then  on  the  stone  sat  down. 

And  aye  he  read  page  after  page  ; 

Page  after  page  he  turn'd  ; 
And  as  he  read  their  blessed  words 

His  heart  within  him  burn'd. 

Still,  still  the  book  the  old  man  read, 
As  he  would  ne'er  have  done  ; 

From  the  hour  of  noon  he  read  the  book 
Unto  the  set  of  sun. 

The  little  child  she  brought  him  out 

A  cake  of  wheaten  bread ; 
But  it  lay  unbroke  at  eventide  ; 

Nor  did  he  raise  his  head, 
Until  he  every  written  page 

Within  the  book  had  read. 

Then  came  the  sturdy  forester 

Along  the  homeward  track. 
Whistling  aloud  a  hunting  tune, 

With  a  slain  deer  on  his  back. 

Loud  greeting  gave  the  forester 

Unto  the  pilgrim  poor ; 
The  old  man  rose  with  thoughtful  brow, 

And  eiiter'd  at  the  door. 

The  two  had  sate  them  down  to  meat. 
And  the  pilgrim  'gan  to  tell 

How  he  had  eaten  on  Olivet, 
And  drank  at  Jacob's  well. 

And  then  he  told  how  he  had  knelt 
Where'er  our  Lord  had  pray'd  ; 

How  he  had  in  the  garden  been, 

And  the  tomb  where  he  was  laid  ; — 

And  then  he  turn'd  unto  the  book, 
And  read  in  English  plain. 

How  Christ  had  died  on  Calvary  ; 
How  he  had  risen  again  ; 


VOICES   OF  THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


245 


And  all  his  comfortable  words, 

His  deeds  of  mercy  all, 
He  read,  and  of  the  widow's  mite, 

And  the  poor  prodigal. 

As  water  to  the  parched  soil, 

As  to  the  hungry,  bread, 
So  fell  upon  the  woodman's  soul 

Each  word  the  pilgrim  read. 

Thus  through  the  midnight  did  they  read. 

Until  the  dawn  of  day  ; 
And  then  came  in  the  woodman's  son 

To  fetch  the  book  away. 

All  quick  and  troubled  was  his  speech, 
His  face  was  pale  with  dread, 

For  he  said,  "  The  King  hath  made  a  law 
That  the  book  must  not  be  read, — 

For  it  was  such  a  fearful  heresy, 
The  holy  Abbot  said." 


THE    BARON'S    DAUGHTER. 

THE  LAY  OF  A  LANDLESS  POET. 

Lovely  Lady  Madeline  ! 

High-born  Lady  Madeline, 
What  a  heavenly  dream  had  T, 

'Neath  the  moon  but  yester-e"en ! 

In  thy  gracious  beauty  bright. 
In  thy  bower  I  saw  thee  stand, 

Looking  from  its  casement  out, 
With  my  verses  in  thy  hand, 

Birds  were  singing  all  around  thee. 

Flowers  were  blooming  'neath  the  wall, 

And  from  out  the  garden  alleys 
Chimed  the  silvery  fountain's  fall. 

But  thy  thoughts  were  not  of  these ; 

Loveliest  Lady  Madeline, 
Would  that,  in  that  blessed  hour, 

I  the  folded  scroll  had  been! 

Madeline,  thy  race  is  proud. 

Fierce  thy  brethren,  stern  thy  sire; 

And  thy  lady-mother's  scorn 
Withereth  like  consuming  fire. 

How  is  it,  sweet  Madeline, 

That  thou  art  so  kind  of  cheer, 

That  the  lowliest  in  the  house 

Thinks  of  thee  with  love,  not  fear. 

Even  the  sour  old  gardener. 

Through  the  winter's  iciest  hours, 

Works  with  cheerful-hearted  will 
If  it  be  to  tend  thy  flowers. 


As  for  me — oh  Madeline, 

Though  thy  brethren  fierce  and  high 
Scarce  would  deign  to  speak  my  name, 

'Twould  for  thee  be  heaven  to  die  ! 

Madeline,  my  love  is  madness  ! 

How  should  I  aspire  unto  thee  ; 
How  should  I,  the  lowly-born. 

Find  fit  words  to  woo  thee  ! 

Every  goodly  chamber  beareth 
Proudly  on  its  pictured  wall, 

Lords  and  ladies  of  renown. 
Richly  robed,  and  noble  all. 

Not  a  daughter  of  thy  house 

But  did  mate  in  her  degree  ; 
'Twas  for  love  I  learned  by  rote, 

Long  years  past,  thy  pedigree  ! 

And  in  those  old  chronicles. 

Which  the  chaplain  bade  me  read. 

Not  a  page,  but  of  thy  line 
Telleth  some  heroic  deed. 

And  within  the  chancel  aisle, 

'Neath  their  banners  once  blood-dyed, 
Lie  the  noble  of  thy  house. 

In  their  marble,  side  by  side. 

As  for  me — my  father  lieth 

In  the  village  churchyard-ground, 

And  upon  his  lowly  head-stone 
Only  may  his  name  be  found. 

What  am  I,  that  I  should  love 
One  like  thee,  high  Madeline  ! 

I,  a  nameless  man  and  poor, 
Sprung  of  kindred  mean. 

W^ithout  house,  without  lands, 
Without  bags  of  goodly  gold  ; 

What  have  I  to  give  pretence 
To  my  wishes  wild  and  bold  ! 

What  have  11     Oh,  JNIadeline, 

Small  things  to  the  poor  are  great ; 

Mine  own  heart  and  soul  have  made 
The  wealth  of  mine  estate. 

Walking  'neath  the  stars  at  even, 
Walking  'neath  the  summer's  noon ; 

Spring's  first  leaves  offender  green, 
And  fair  flowers  sweet  and  boon  : 

These,  the  common  things  of  earth, 
But  more,  our  human  kind  ; 

The  silent  suffering  of  the  heart ; 
The  mystery  of  mind  : 


246 


VOICES   OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


The  lowly  lot  of  peasant  folk, 

Their  humblest  hopes  and  fears  ; 

The  pale  cheek  of  a  woman, 
And  even  children's  tears  : 

All  circumstance  of  mortal  life, 

The  lowly  though  it  be  ; 
And  pure  thought  garnered  in  the  soul, 

The  wealth  of  poesy — 
Have  made  me,  high-born  Madeline, 

Not  quite  unworthy  thee  ! 

Anything  which  excites  the  tenderness  of  the  hu- 
man heart,  and  directs  it  toward  heartless  customs 
and  cruel  prejudices,  is  doing  the  work  of  a  mission- 
ary in  the  world's  redemption,  though  it  be  in  the 
form  of  a  little  child-like  poem.  Who  can  estimate 
the  blessed  influence  of  Mary  Howitt,  on  future 
generations  ]  The  small  seed  she  plants  with  such 
loving  diligence,  will  grow  into  spreading  trees, 
and  nations  rest  in  their  shade.  Hear  her  plead  for 
the  persecuted  Hedge-Hog. 

Thou  poor  little  English  porcupine, 
What  a  harassed  and  weary  life  is  thine ! 
And  thou  art  a  creature  meek  and  mild, 
And  wouldst  not  harm  a  sleeping  child. 

Thou  scarce  can  stir  from  thy  tree-root 
But  thy  foes  are  up  in  hot  pursuit ; 
Thou  might'st  be  an  asp,  or  horned  snake, 
Thou  poor  little  martyr  of  the  brake ! 

Thou  scarce  canst  put  out  that  nose  of  thine ; 
Thou  canst  not  show  a  single  spine, 
But  the  urchin  rabble  are  in  a  rout, 
With  terrier  curs  to  hunt  thee  out. 

The  poor  Hedgehog!  one  would  think  he  knew 
His  foes  so  many,  his  friends  so  few  ; 
For  when  he  comes  out,  he's  in  a  fright, 
And  hurries  again  to  be  out  of  sight. 

How  unkind  the  world  must  seem  to  him, 
Living  under  the  thicket  dusk  and  dim. 
And  getting  his  living  among  the  roots, 
Of  the  insects  small,  and  dry  hedge-fruits. 

How  hard  it  must  be  to  be  kicked  about 
If  by  chance  his  prickly  back  peep  out ; 
To  be  all  his  days  misunderstood. 
When  he  could  not  harm  us  if  he  would  ! 

He's  an  innocent  thing,  living  under  the  blame 
That  he  merits  not,  of  an  evil  name  ; 
He  is  weak  and  small, — and  all  he  needs 
Lies  under  the  hedge  among  the  weeds. 

He  robs  not  man  of  rest  nor  food. 
And  all  that  he  asks  is  quietude  ; 
To  be  left  by  him  as  a  worthless  stone, 
Under  the  dry  hedge  bank  alone  ! 


Oh,  poor  little  English  porcupine, 
What  a  troubled  and  vi'eary  life  is  thine ! 
I  would  that  my  pity  thy  foes  could  quell. 
For  thou  art  ill-used  and  meanest  well. 


BIRDS. 

Oh,  the  sunny,  summer  time  ! 

Oh,  the  leafy  summer  time  ! 
Merry  is  the  bird's  life. 

When  the  year  is  in  its  prime  ! 
Birds  are  by  the  water-falls 

Dashing  in  the  rain-bow  spray  ; 
Everywhere,  everywhere 

Light  and  lovely  there  are  they  ! 
Birds  are  in  the  forest  old. 

Building  in  each  hoary  tree  ; 
Birds  are  on  the  green  hills  ; 

Birds  are  by  the  sea ; 

On  the  moor,  and  in  the  fen, 

'Mong  the  whortle-berries  green  ; 
In  the  yellow  furze  bush 

There  the  joyous  bird  is  seen ; 
In  the  heather  on  the  hill ; 

All  among  the  mountain  thyme ; 
By  the  little  brook-sides. 

Where  the  sparkling  water's  chime  ; 
In  the  crag ;  and  on  the  peak. 

Splintered,  savage,  wild,  and  bare, 
There  the  bird  with  wild  wing 

Wheeleth  through  the  air. 

Whceleth  through  the  breezy  air. 

Singing,  screaming  in  his  flight, 
Calling  to  his  bird-mate, 

In  a  troubleless  delight ! 
In  the  green  and  leafy  wood. 

Where  the  branching  ferns  up-curl, 
Soon  as  is  the  dawning. 

Wakes  the  mavis  and  the  merle ; 
Wakes  the  cuckoo  on  the  bough; 

Wakes  the  jay  with  ruddy  bueast ; 
Wakes  the  mother  ring-dove 

Brooding  on  her  nest  ! 

Oh,  the  sunny  summer  time  ! 

Oh,  the  leafy  summer  lime '. 
Merry  is  the  bird's  life 

When  the  year  is  in  its  prime ! 
Some  are  strong  and  some  are  weak ; 

Some  love  day  and  some  love  night 
But  where'er  a  bird  is, 

Whate'er  loves— it  has  delight, 
In  the  joyous  song  it  sings  ; 

In  the  liquid  air  it  cleaves ; 
In  the  sunshine  ;  in  the  shower  ; 

III  the  nest  it  weaves! 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


Do  we  wake  or  do  we  sleep ; 

Go  our  fancies  in  a  crowd 
After  many  a  dull  care, — 

Birds  are  singing  loud  ! 
Sing  then,  linnet ;  sing  then,  wren  ; 

Merle  and  mavis  sing  your  fill ; 
And  thou,  rapturous  sky  lark, 

Sing  and  soar  up  from  the  hill ! 
Sing,  oh,  nightingale,  and  pour 

Out  for  us  sweet  fancies  new ! 
Singing  thus  for  us,  birds, 

We  will  sing  of  you  ! 


HOUSEHOLD  TREASURES. 

What  are  they?   gold  and  silver. 

Or  what  such  ore  can  buy  ? 
The  pride  of  silken  luxury ; 

Rich  robes  of  Tyrian  dye  ? 
Guests  that  come  thronging  in 

With  lordly  pomp  and  state  ? 
Or  thankless,  liveried  serving-men, 

To  stand  about  the  gate  ? 

Or  are  they  daintiest  meats 

Sent  up  on  silver  fine? 
Or  golden,  chased  cups  o'erbrimmed 

With  rich  Falernian  wine  ? 
Or  parchments  setting  forth 

Broad  lands  our  father's  held; 
Parks  for  our  deer,  ponds  for  our  fish ; 

And  woods  that  may  be  felled  ? 

No,  no,  they  are  not  these  !  or  else, 

God  help  the  poor  man's  need  ! 
Then,  sitting  'mid  his  little  ones, 

He  would  be  poor  indeed  ! 
They  are  not  these  !  our  household  wealth 

Belongs  not  to  degree  ; 
It  is  the  love  within  our  souls  — 

The  children  at  our  knee  ! 

My  heart  is  filled  vi'ith  gladness 

When  I  behold  how  fair. 
How  bright  are  rich  men's  childien, 

With  their  thick  golden  hair! 
For  I  know  'mid  countless  treasure. 

Gleaned  from  the  east  and  west, 
These  living,  loving  human  things. 

Are  still  the  rich  man's  best! 

But  my  heart  o'erfloweth  to  mine  eyes, 

And  a  prayer  is  on  my  tongue. 
When  I  see  the  poor  man's  children, 

'J  he  toiling,  though  the  young, 
Gathering  with  sun-burnt  hands 

'J'he  dusty  way-side  flowers  ! 
Alas  ! — that  pastime  symbcdleth 

Life's  after,  darker  hours. 


My  heart  o'erfloweth  to  mine  eyes^ 

When  I  see  the  poor  man  stand. 
After  his  daily  work  is  done. 

With  children  by  the  hand — 
And  this,  he  kisses  tenderly; 

And  that,  sweet  names  doth  call — 
For  I  know  he  has  no  tj'easure 

Like  those  dear  children  small ! 

Oh,  children  young,  I  bless  ye. 

Ye  keep  such  love  alive  ! 
And  the  home  can  ne'er  be  desolate. 

Where  love  has  room  to  thrive  ! 
Oh,  precious  household  treasures, 

Life's  sweetest,  holiest  claim — 
The  Saviour  blessed  ye  while  on  earth, — 

I  bless  ye  in  His  name  ! 


LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

Sporting  through  the  forest  wide  ; 
Playmg  by  the  water  side  ; 
Wandering  o'er  the  heathy  fells ; 
Down  within  the  woodland  dells; 
All  among  the  mountains  wild; 
Dwelleth  many  a  little  child  ! 
In  the  baron's  hall  of  pride  ; 
By  the  poor  man's  dull  fireside ; 
'Mid  the  mighty,  'mid  the  mean  ; 
Little  children  may  be  seen  I 
Like  the  flowers  that  spring  up  fair. 
Bright  and  countless,  every  where  ! 

In  the  far  isles  of  the  main  ; 
In  the  desert's  lone  doniain  ; 
In  the  savage  mountain-glen  ; 
'STong  the  tiibes  of  swarthy  men; 
Wheresoe'er  a  foot  hath  gone; 
W'hereso'er  the  sun  hath  shone  ; 
On  a  league  of  peopled  ground  ; 
Little  children  may  be  found  I 

Blessings  on  them  !     They,  in  me. 
Move  a  kindly  sympathy  ! 
With  their  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears; 
With  their  laughter  and  their  tears; 
With  their  wonders  so  intense. 
And  their  small  experience  ! 

Little  children,  not  alone 
On  the  wide  earth  are  ye  known, 
'Mid  its  labours  and  its  cares, 
'Mid  its  sufferings  and  its  snares. 
Free  from  sorrow,  free  from  strife. 
In  the  world  of  love  and  life. 
Where  no  sinful  thing  hath  trod 
In  the  presence  of  your  God, 
Spotless,  blameless,  glorified, 
Little  children,  ye  abide  ! 


,  OF  TBE       '^T/ 


24  8 


VOICES   OF   THK   TRUE-HEARTED. 


THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLON. 

BY    JOIIN    G.    WHITTIER. 

Ibn  Batuta,  the  celebrated  Mussulman  traveller 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  speaks  of  a  Cypress  tree 
in  Ceylon,  universally  held  sacred  by  the  natives, 
the  leaves  of  which  were  said  to  fall  only  at  certain 
intervals,  and  he  who  had  the  happiness  to  find  and 
eat  one  of  them,  was  restored,  at  once,  to  youth  and 
vigor.  The  traveller  saw  several  venerable  Jogees, 
or  saints,  sitting  silent  and  motionless  under  the 
tree,  patiently  awaiting  the  falling  of  a  leaf. 

They  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 

The  sacred  cypress  tre2  about, 
And,  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows, 

Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 

Grey  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 

Through  weary  night  and  lingering  day — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 

The  song  of  Ceylon's  birds  was  sweet ; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and  hill ; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eye-balls  blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still  ! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them  1 
'J'hp  Moslem's  sunset-call — the  dance 

Of  Ceylon's  maids — the  passing  gleam 
Of  battle-flag,  and  lance  ? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf, 

Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing: 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  Age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

Oh  I — if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  tiustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A  youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  wha  sit  beneath  that  Tree, 
Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer 
Upon  the  waiting  head  : 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 

And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But,  on  the  fainting  sour.,  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine  : 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch 
.^Ild  nnurnur  at  the  long  delay  ? 

Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 
And   His  appointed  way  ? 


Qr,  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  muimurs  die  ? 

Alas  !  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake, 

The  self-abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 
Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong  : 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  stroug. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword. 

Than  "  watch  one  hour"  in  humbling  prayer 

Life's  "  great  things,"  like  the  Syrian  lord 
Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  Oh  !  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save  : 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

Oh  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  Thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour, 
Forgetful  of  Thy  pain  ; 

Bend  o"er  us  now,  as  over  them, 

And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  ! 


It  is  little  : 
But  in  these  sharp  extremities  of  fortune. 
The  blessings  which  the  weak  and  poor  can  scatter 
Have  their  own  season?     '"J  is  a  little  thing 
To  give  a  cup  of  water  ;  yet  its  draught 
Of  cool  refreshment,  drained  by  fever'd  lips. 
May  give  a  shock  of  pleasure  to  the  frame 
More  exquisite  than  when  nectarean  juice 
Renews  the  life  of  joy  in  happiest  hours. 
It  is  a  little  thing  to  speak  a  phrase 
Of  common  comfort,  which  by  daily  use 
Has  almost  lost  its  sense;  yet  on  the  ear 
Of  him  who  thought  to  die  unmonrned,  'twill  fall 
Like  choicest  music  ;  fill  the  glazing  eye 
With  gentle  tears  ;  relax  the  knotted  hand 
To  know  the  bonds  of  fellowship  again  ; 
And  shed  on  the  departing  soul  a  sense 
More  precious  than  the  beiiison  of  friends 
About  the  honored  death-bed  of  the  rich. 
To  him  who  else  were  lonely,  that  another 
Of  the  great  family  is  near  and  feels. 

T.   N.  TALroiKi). 


VOICES    OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


249 


A  Jew  entered  a  Parsee  temple,  and  beheld  the 
sacred  firo ;  what,  said  he  to  the  priest,  do  ye  wor- 
ship the  fire?  Not  the  fire,  answered  the  priest; 
it  is  to  us  an  emblem  of  the  sun,  and  of  his  genial 
heat.  Do  you  then  worship  the  sun  as  your  God  ? 
asked  the  Jew.  Know  ye  not  this  luminary  also,  is 
but  a  work  of  that  Almighty  Creator? 

We  know  it,  replied  the  priest,  but  the  unculti- 
vated man  requires  a  sensible  sign,  in  order  to  form 
a  conception  of  the  Most  High.  And  is  not  the  sun, 
the  incomprehensible  source  of  light,  an  image  of 
that  invisible  Being  who  blesses  and  preserves  all 
things  ? 

The  Israelite  thereupon  rejoined.  Do  your  people 
then  distinguish  the  type  from  the  original  ?  They 
call  the  sun  their  God,  and  descending,  even  from 
this,  to  a  baser  object,  they  kneel  before  an  earthly 
flame.  Ye  amuse  the  outward  but  blind  the  inward 
eye,  and  while  ye  hold  to  them  the  earthly,  ye  with- 
draw from  them  the  heavenly  light. — Thou  shalt 
not  make  unto  thee  any  image  or  any  likeness. 

How  then  do  you  designate  the  Supreme  Being  ? 
asked  the  Parsee. 

We  call  him  Jehovah,  Adonia,  that  is,  the  Lord 
who  is,  who  was,  and  who  will  be ;  answered  the 
Jew. 

Your  appellation  is  grand  and  sublime,  said  the 
Parsee,  but  it  is  awful  too  ! 

A  Christian  then  drew  nigh  and  said — We  call 
him  Father. 

The  Pagan  and  the  Jew  looked  at  each  other,  and 
said — Here  is  at  once  an  image  and  reality;  it  is  a 
word  of  the  heart,  said  they. 

Therefore  they  raised  their  eyes  to  heaven,  and 
said  with  reverence  and  love — Our  Father  !  And 
they  took  each  other  by  the  hand,  and  all  three  call- 
ed one  another  brothers. — F.  A.  Krummecher. 


TO  MY  BOOKS. 

CY  CAROLINE  E.  S.  NORTON. 

Silent  companions  of  the  lonely  hour. 

Friends  who  can  never  alter  or  forsake, 
Who  for  inconstant  roving  have  no  power, 

And  all  neglect,  perforce,  must  calmly  take — 
Let  me  return  to  you  ;  this  turmoil  ending. 

Which  worldly  cares  have  in  my  spirit  wrought; 
And,  o'er  your  old  familiar  pages  bending, 

Refresh  my  mind  with  many  a  tranquil  thought, 
Till,  haply  meeting  there,  from  time  to  time, 

Fancies,  the  audible  echo  of  my  own, 
'Twill  be  like  hearing  in  a  foreign  clime 

My  native  language  spoke  in  friendly  tone, 
And  with  a  sort  of  welcome  I  shall  dwell 
On  these,  my  unripe  musings  told  so  well. 
32 


ENGLISH   DESTITUTION, 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

BY    TIIO?.IAS    HOOD. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

"  Stitch  !  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  '  Song  of  the  Shirt  1' 

<<  Work  !  work  !  work  ! 
While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 

And  work — work — work, 
Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 

It's  0  !  to  be  a  slave 
Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 

Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 
If  this  is  a  Christian's  work  ! 

«'  Work — work — work! 
Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ; 

Work — work — work , 
Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band — 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 
And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  ! 

"  0  !  Men,  with  sisters  dear  ! 
O!  Men,    with  mothers  and  wives! 

It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 
But  human  creatures'  lives ! 

Stitch — stitch — stitch. 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 
A  Shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt. 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death  ? 
That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone; 

I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shajio, 
It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own 
Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep; 

Oh  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 
And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  I 

<<  Work — work — work  ! 
My  labor  never  flags  ; 

And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 
And  a  crust  of  bread — and  rags  ; 

That  shatter'd  roof;  and  this  naked  floor  ; 
A  table,  a  broken  chair. 

And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there! 


250 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


"Work — work — work  ! 
From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

Work— work— work — 
As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, — 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, — 

Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  bennmb'd, 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"  Work — work — work! 
In  the  dull  December  light, 

And  work — work — work, 
When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright — 

While  underneath  the  eaves 
The  brooding  swallows  cling, 

As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 
And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"  Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  swept — 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  fc-et, 

For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 

Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 
And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  Oh  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 
A  respite  however  brief  ! 

No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  and  Hope, 
But  only  time  for  Grief; 

A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart. 
But  in  their  briny  bed 

My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 
Hinders  needle  and  thread.'' 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  Woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 
In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, — 

Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  Rich,— 
She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt." 

A  STARVATION  ANTHEM  FOR  THE  ROYAL 
CHRISTENING. 

Bring  forth  the  babe  in  pomp  and  lace, 

While  thousands  starve  and  curse  the  light ! 
But  what  of  that?— on  royal  face 

Shame  knows  no  blush,  however  slight. 
Bring  forth  the  babe  ;  a  nation's  moans 

Will  ring  sweet  music  in  his  ear. 
For  well  we  know  a  people's  groans 

To  royal  ears  were  always  dear. 

Bring  forth  the  babe; — down,  courtiers,  down  I 
And  bow  your  lackey  knees  in  dust 

Before  a  child's  beslobbered  gown — 
(Owr  children  cannot  find  a  crust!) 


When  Christ  was  born,  no  servile  throng 
Around  the  Saviour's  manger  met ; 

No  flatterers  raised  their  fulsome  song, — 
But  what  was  Christ  to  Alberfs  pet? 

Goil,  who  has  heard  the  widow's  moan, — 

God,  who  has  heard  the  orphan's  cry; 
Thou,  too,  dost  sit  upon  a  throne. 

But  none  round  thee  of  famine  die  ! 
Things  like  this  babe  of  royal  birth. 

Who  boast  their  princely  "right  divine," 
Are  but  thy  parodies  on  earth — 

Their's  is  oppression — mercy  thine. 

Bring  forth  the  babe  !     From  foreign  lands 

Fresh  kingly  vampires  flock  to  greet 
This  new  one  in  its  nurse's  hands, 

(For  royal  mothers  give  no  teat.) 
Bring  forth  the  toy  of  princely  whim, 

And  let  your  prayers  mount  night  and  day 
For  ought  we  not  to  pray  for  him 

V^'ho'll  prey  on  us  enough  some  day  ? 

O  !   who  would  grudge  to  squander  gold 

On  such  a  glorious  babe  as  this' 
What  though  our  babes  be  starved  and  cold. 

They  have  no  claim  on  earthly  bliss. 
Ours  are  no  mongrel  German  breed. 

But  English  born  and  English  bred  ; 
Then  let  them  live  and  die  in  need. 

While  the  plump  Coburg  thing  is  fed  ! 

Christen  the  babe,  Archbishop  proud. 

Strange  servant  of  the  lowly  Christ ; 
Thousands  are  to  ynur  purse  allowed  ; 

For  htm  the  smallest  loaf  sufliced. 
Though  holy  water  's  scanty  now, 

My  lord  you  may  dismiss  your  fears  ; 
Take  to  baptize  the  infant's  brow, 

A  starving  people's  bitter  tears ! 


SONNET. 

BY  FRANCES  ANN  BUTLER. 

Whene'er  I  recollect  the  happy  time 

When  you  and  I  held  converse  dear  together, 

There  come  a  thousand  thoughts  of  sunny  weather, 

Of  early  blossoms,  and  the  fresh  year's  prime. 

Your  memory  lives  for  ever  in  my  mind 

With  all  the  fragrant  beauties  of  the  spring, 

With  od'rous  lime  and  silver  hawthorn  twin'd. 

And  many  a  noon-day  woodland  wandering. 

There's  not  a  thought  of  you,  but  brings  along 

Some  sunny  dream  of  river,  field  and  sky  : 

'Tis  wafted  on  the  blackbird's  sunset  song, 

Or  some  wild  snatch  of  ancient  melody. 

And  as  I  date  it  still,  our  love  arose 

'Twixt  the  last  violet  and  the  earliest  rose. 


VOICES    OF  HE     TRUE-HEARTED. 


251 


THE    EMIGRANT'S    FAMILY. 

One  of  the  strongest  peculiarities — indeed,  I  may 
sa.y  passions — of  the  Irish,  is  their  devoted  fondness 
for  their  offspring.  A  curious  illustration  of  this 
occurred  to  me  on  my  recent  journey  through  the 
Northern  lakes.  It  happened  to  be  what  sailors  call 
very  dirti/  weather,  finished  up  by  a  tremendous 
gale,  which  obliged  us  to  seek  a  shelter  at  a  lump 
of  aboriginal  barrenness,  called  Manitou  Island, 
where  we  were  obliged  to  remain  five  days.  There 
were  a  few  deck  passengers — between  five  and  six 
iiundred  ;  and  inasmuch  as  tbcy  had  only  provided 
themselves  with  barely  sufficient  for  the  average 
time,  provisions  became  alarmingly  scarce,  and  no 
possibility  of  a  supply.  To  be  sure,  there  was  one 
venerable  ox — a  sort  of  semi  petrifaction,  an  orga- 
nic remnant — a  poor  attenuated,  hornless,  sightless, 
bovine  patriarch,  who  obligingly  yielded  uphis  small 
residue  of  existence  for  our  benefit.  Indeed,  it  was 
quite  a  mercy  that  we  arrived  to  relieve  him  from 
a  painful  state  of  suspense;  for  so  old  and  powerless 
was  he,  that  if  his  last  breadth  had  not  been  extract- 
ed, he  certainly  would  not  have  drawn  it  by  himself 

Well,  as  you  may  suppose,  there  was  considerable 
consternation  onboard.  Short — verij short  allowance 
was  adopted  to  meet  the  contingency,  and  th-e  poor 
deck  passengers  had  a  terrible  time  of  it.  Amongst 
the  latter  was  an  Irish  emigrant,  'A'ith  his  wife  and 
three  beautiful  children,  the  eldest  about  seven  years, 
all  without  the  smallest  subsistence,  except  what  the 
charity  of  their  fellow  passengers  could  afford  them  ; 
and  as  they  were  scantily  supplied,  it  can  readily  be 
imagined  how  miserably  off  was  the  poor  family. 
However,  it  so  happened  that  the  beauty  and  intel- 
ligence of  the  children  attracted  the  attention  of  one 
of  our  lady  passengers,  who  had  them  occasionally 
brought  into  the  cabin,  and  their  hunger  appeased. 
Gleesome,  bright  eyed  little  creatures  they  were, 
scrupulously  clean,  despite  the  poverty  of  their 
parents,  all  life  and  happiness,  and  in  blissful  igno- 
rance of  the  destitution  by  which  they  were  sur- 
rounded. 

One  day  delighted  with  her  proteges,  the  lady  ha:p- 
pened  to  say,  half  jestingly,  "  I  wonder  would  this 
poor  man  part  with  one  of  those  little  darlings?  I 
should  like  to  adopt  it.'' 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  I;  "suppose  we  make  the 
inquiry." 

The  man  was  sent  for,  and  the  delicate  business 
thus  opened. 

"  My  good  friend,"  said  the  lady,  "you  are  very 
poor,  are  you  not?" 

His  answer  was  peculiarly  Irish:  "poor!  my 
lady,"  said  he.  "  Be  the  powers  of  pewther  !  if 
there's  a  poorer  man  nor  myself  troublin'  the  world, 
liod  pity  both  of  us,  for  we'd  be  about  aquail." 

"Then  you  must  find  it  difficult  to  support  your 
children,''  said  I,  malu)ig  a  long  jump  towards  our 
object.  . 


"  Is  it  support  thim,  sir  ?"  he  replied. 

"Lord  bless  ye,  I  never  supported  thim.  They 
git  supported  some  how  or  another  ;  they've  niver 
bin  hungry  yit — when  they  are  it'll  be  time  enough 

to  grumble." 

Irish  all  over,  thought  I — to-day  has  enough  to  do, 
let  to-morrow  look  out  for  itself. 

"Well  then,"  I  resumed,  with  a  determined  plunge, 
"  would  it  be  a  relief  to  you  to  part  from  them  ?'' 

I  had  mistaken  my  niode  of  attack.  He  started, 
turned  pale,  and  with  a  vvild  glare  in  his  eyes,  lite- 
rally screamed  out : 

"  A  relief!  God  be  good  to  uz,  what  d'ye  mean'  1 
A  relief?  would  it  be  a  relief  d'ye  think,  to  have  the 
hand  chopped  from  me  body;  or  the  heart  tore  out  of 
me  breast  ?" 

"  You  don't  understand  us,"  interposed  m^y  philan- 
thropic companion.  "Should  one  be  enabled  to 
place  your  child  in  ease  and  comfort,  would  you 
interfere  with  its  well-doing  ?" 

The  tact  of  wotoan  !  She  had  touched  the  chord 
of  paternal  solicitude  ;  the  poor  fellow  was  silent, 
twisted  his  head  about  and  looked  all  bewildered. 
The  struggle  between  a  father's  love  and  his  child's 
interest  was  evident  and  affecting.     At  last  he  said  : 

"  God  bless  ye  me  lady,  and  all  that  thinks  of  the 
poor  !  Heaven  knows  I'd  be  glad  to  betther  the 
child  ;  it  is'nt  in  regard  to  myself,  but — had'nt  I  bet- 
ter go  and  speak  to  Mary;  she's  the  mother  of  the 
child,  and  t'would  beonreasonable  to  be  givin'  away 
her  children  afore  Irer  face  and  she  not  know  nothing 
of  the  mather." 

"  Away  with  you  then,''  said  I,  "and  bring  back 
word  as  soon  as  possible."  In  about  an  hour  he  re- 
turned, but  with  eyes  red  and  swollen;  and  features 
pale  from  excitement  and  agitation. 

"  Well,"  inquired  I,  "  what  success?" 

"  Bedail  'twas  a  hard  straggle,  sir,"  said  he,  "but 
it's  for  the  child's  good,  and  Heaven  gire  us  strength 
to  bear  it." 

"Very  good,  and  which  is  it  to  be?" 

"  Why,  sir,  I've  been  spakin'  to  Mary,  and  she 
thinks  as  Nora  here  is  the  ouldest  she  won't  miss 
the  mother  so  much,  and  if  ye'll  jist  let  her  take  a; 
partin'  kiss  she'd  give  her  to  yez  wid  a  blessin." 

So  my  poor  fellow  took  his  children  away,  to  look 
at  one  of  them  for  the  last  time.  It  was  not  long  ere 
he  returned,  but  when  he  did  he  was  leading  the 
second  oldest. 

"  How's  this  ?"  said  I,  "  have  you  changed  your 
mind  ?•" 

"Not  exactly  changed  me  mind,  sir,"  he  replied, 
"but  I've  changed  the  crather.  You  see  sir,  I've 
been  spakin'  to  Mary,  and  whin  it  come  to  the  ind, 
be  goxey  !  she  could'nt  part  with  Norah,  at  all ; 
they've  got  use  to  aich  other's  ways  ;  but  here's 
little  Biddy— she's  purtier  far  if  she'll  do  as  well." 

"  It's  all  the  same,"  said  I,  "let  Biddy  remain." 

"  3Iay  Heaven  be  yer  guardian  !"  cried  he,  snatch- 


252 


VOICES    OF    TUK    TRUE-HEARTED. 


ing  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  giving  her  one  long  ami 
hearty  kiss.  <•  God  be  kind  to  thim  that's  kind  to 
you,  and  thim  tliat  offers  you  hurt  or  liurm,  may 
their  sow!  niver  see  St.  Tetlier  !"  So  the  bereaved 
father  rushed  away,  and  all  that  night  the  child  re- 
mained with  us ;  but  early  the  ne.\t  morning  my 
friend  Pat  reappeared,  and  this  time  he  had  his 
youngest  child,  a  mere  baby,  snugly  cuddled  up  in 
bis  arms. 

•  <  What's  the  matter  now  ?"  said  I. 

»«  Why,  thin,  sir,"  said  he,  with  an  expression  of 
the  most  comic  an.xiety,  "  axin  yer  honor's  pardon 
for  bein'  so  wake-hearted,  whin  1  begin  to  think  of 
EiJdy's  eyes— look  at  thim,  they're  the  image  of  her 
mother's  beda.l— I  could'nt  let  her  go;  but  here's 
little  Paudeen— he  won't  be  much  trouble  to  any 
one,  for'if  he  takes  after  his  mother,  he'll  have  the 
brightest  eye  and  the  softest  heart  on  the  top  of 
creation ;  and  if  he  ta'KCs  after  his  father,  he'll  have 
a  purty  hard  fist  on  a  broad  pair  of  shoulders  to  push 
his  way  through  the  world.  Take  him,  sir,  and  gi' 
me  Biddy." 

«'  Just  as  you  like,"  said  I,  having  pretty  good 
guess  how  matters  would  eventua'e.  So  he  took 
away  his  pet  Biddy,  and  handed  us  the  little  toddling 
urchin.  'I'his  chirping  little  vagabond  won't  he  long 
with  us  thought  I.  Ten  minutes  had  scarcely 
elapsed  ere  Pat  rushed  into  the  cabin,  and  seizing 
little  Paudeen  in  his  arms,  he  turned  to  me,  and 
with  large  tears  bubbling  in  his  eyes,  cried  : 

•  «  Look  at  him  sir — ^jist  look  at  him — it's  the 
youngest.  Ye  wouKl'nt  have  the  heart  to  keep  him 
from  uz.  The  long  and  short  of  it  is,  I've  been  spa- 
kin  to  Mary.  I  did'nt  like  to  let  Biddy  go;  but  be 
me  sowl,  neither  could  live  half  a  day  without  little 
Paudeen.  No,  sir ;  no,  we  can  bear  the  bitterness 
of  poverty,  but  we  can't  part  from  our  children, 
unless  iPs  the  will  of  PruviJcnce  to  take  them  from 


A  FUNERAL. 
BY   HENRY  alfot;d. 
Slowly  and  softly  let  the  music  go 
As  ye  wind  upwards  to  the  gray  church  tower  ; 
Check  the  shrill  hautboy,  let  the  pipe  breathe  low — 
Tread  lightly  on  the  path-side  daisy  flower; 
For  she  ye  carry  was  a  gentle  bud, 
Loved  by  the  unsunn'd  drops  of  silver  dew  ; 
Her  voice  vvas  like  the  whisper  of  the  wood 
In  prime  of  even,  when  the  stars  are  few. 
Lay  her  all  gently  in  the  flowcrful  mould, 
\Vei;p  with  her  one  brief  hour,  then  turn  away, — 
Go  to  hope's  prison — and  from  out  the  cold 
And  solitary  gratings  many  a  day 
Look  forth:  'tis  said  the  world  is  growing  old — 
And  streaks  of  orient  light  ia  Time's   horizon  play, 


THE  WATER  DRINKER'S  SONG. 

O  !  water  for  me !     Bright  water  for  me  ! 

And  wine  for  the  tremulous  debauchee  ! 

It  cooleth  the  brow,  it  cooleth  the  brain. 

It  maketh  the  faint  one  strong  again ; 

It  comes  o'er  the  sense  like  a  breeze  from  the  sea, 

All  freshness  like  infant  purity; 

O  water,  bright  water  for  me,  for  me  ! 

Give  wine,  give  wine  to  the  debauchee  ! 

Fill  to  the  brim  !     Fill,  fill  to  the  brim  ! 
Let  the  flowing  crystal  kiss  the  rim, 
For  I,  like  the  flowers,  drink  naught  but  dew, 
And  my  hand  is  steady  and  my  eye  is  true. 
O  water,  bright  water's  a  mine  of  wealth. 
And  the  ores  it  yields  are  vigor  and  health  ; 
So  water,  pure  w^ater,  for  me,  for  me  ! 
And  wine  for  the  tremulous  debauchee  ! 

Fill  again  to  the  brim — again  to  the  brim  ! 
For  water  strengtheneth  life  and  limb; 
To  the  days  of  the  aged  it  addeth  length. 
To  the  might  of  the  mighty  it  addeth  strength; 
It  freshens  the  heart,  it  brightens  the  sight, 
'Tis  like  quaffing  a  goblet  of  morning  light ; 
So,  water,  I  will  drink  naught  but  thee. 
Thou  parent  of  health  and  energy  ! 

When  over  the  hills,  like  a  gladsome  bride, 
Morning  walks  forth  in  her  beauty's  pride, 
And,  leading  a  band  of  laughing  hours. 
Brushes  the  dew  from  the  nodding  flowers, 
0  I  cheerly  then  my  voice  is  hoard, 
Mingling  with  that  of  the  soaring  bird, 
Who  flingcth  abroad  his  matins  loud, 
As  he  freshens  his  wing  in  the  cold  gray  cloud. 

But  when  evening  has  quitted  her  sheltering  yew, 
Drowsily  flying  and  waving  anew 
Her  dusky  meshes  o'er  land  and  sea- 
How  gently,  0  I  sleep,  fall  thy  poppies  on  me  ! 
For  I  drink  water,  pure,  cold  and  bright. 
And  my  dreams  are  of  Heaven  the  livelong  night  ; 
So  hurrah  for  thee,  water  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
Thou  art  silver  and  gold,  thou  art  ribband  and  star  ! 

His  words  seem'd  oracles 
That  pierced  their  bosoms;  and  each  man  would  turn 
And  gaze  in  wonder  on  his  neighbour's  face 
That  with  the  like  dumb  wonder  answcr'd  him  : 
Then  some  would  weep,  some  shout,  some,  ticepor 

touch'd, 
Keep  down  the  cry  with  motion  of  their  hands. 
In  fear  but  to  have  lost  a  syllable. 
The  evening  came,  yet  there  the  people  stood. 
As  if 'twere  noon,  and  they  the  marble  sea. 
Sleeping  without  a  wave.     You  could  have  heard 
The  beating  of  your  pulses  while  he  spoke. 

Gr:oKGE  Ckcly. 


V  0  1  C  E  S   O  F   'J'  11 E   ^J'  R  U  K  - 11 1:  A  R  T  E  D  . 


253 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 

EY    JAV.ES    RUSSEL    lOWELL. 

We   see  but  half  the  causes  of  our  deeds, 

Seeking  them  wholly  in  the  outer  life, 

And  heedless  of  the  encircling  spirit-world, 

Which,  though  unseen,  is  felt,  and  sows  in  us 

All  germs  of  pure  and  world-wide  purposes. 

From  one  stage  of  our  being  to  the  next 

We  puss  unconscious  o'er  a  slender  bridge, 

The  momentary  work  of  unseen  hands. 

Which  crumbles  down  behind  us;  looking  back. 

We  see  the  other  shore,  the  gulf  between, 

And,  marvelling  how  we  won  to  where  we  stuud, 

Content  ourselves  to  call  the  builder  Chance. 

We  trace  the  wisdom  to  tht^  apple's  fall, 

Not  to  the  birth-throes  of  a  mighty  Truth 

Which,  for  long  ages  in  blank  Chaos  dumb. 

Yet  yearned  to  be  incarnate,  and  had  found 

At  last  a  spirit  meet  to  be  the  womb 

From  which  it  might  leap  forth  to  bless  mankind,— 

Not  to  the  soul  of  Newton,  ripe  with  all 

The  hoarded  thoughtfulness  of  earnest  years, 

And  waiting  but  one  ray  of  sunlight  more 

To  blossom  fully. 

But  whence  came  that  ray  ? 
We  call  our  sorrows  Destiny,  but  ought 
Kather  to  name  our  high  successes  so. 
Only  the  instincts  of  great  souls  are  Fate, 
And  have  predestined  sway:  all  other  things. 
Except  by  leave  of  us,  could  never  be. 
For  Destiny  is  but  the  breath  of  God 
Still  moving  in  us,  the  last  fragment  loft 
Of  our  unfallen  nature,  waking  oft 
AVithin  our  thought,  to  beckon  us  beyond 
The  narrow  circle  of  the  seen  and  known, 
And  always  tending  to  a  noble  end. 
As  all  things  must  that  overrule  the  soul, 
And  for  a  space  unseat  the  helmsman,  Will. 
The  fate  of  England  and  of  freedom  once 
Seemed  wavering  in  the  heart  of  one  plain  man  : 
One  step  of  his,  and  the  great  dial  hand, 
That  marks  the  destined  progress  of  the  world 
In  the  eternal  round  from  wisdom  on 
To  higher  wisdom,  had  been  made  to  pause 
A  hundred  years.     That  step  he  did  not  take,— 
He  knew  not  why,  nor  we,  but  only  God, — 
And  lived  to  make  his  simple  oaken  chair 
More  terrible  and  grandly  beautiful. 
More  full  of  majesty,  than  any  throne, 
Before  or  after,  of  a  British  king. 

Upon  the  pier  stood  two  stern  visaged  men, 
Looking  to  where  a  little  craft  lay  moored. 
Swayed  by  the  lazy  current  of  the  Thames, 
Which  weltered  by  in  muddy  listlessness. 
Grave  men  they  were,  and  battlings  of  fierce  thought 


Had  trampled  out  all  softness  from  their  brows, 

And  ploughed  rough  furrows  there  before  their  time. 

For  other  crop  than  such  as  homebred  Peace 

Sows  broadcast  in  the  willing  soil  of  Youth, 

Care,  not  of  self,  but  of  the  common  weal. 

Had  robbed  their  eyes  of  youth,  and  left  instead 

A  look  of  patient  power  and  iron  will. 

And  something  fiercer,  too,  that  gave  broad  hint 

Of  the  plain  weapons  girded  at  their  sides. 

The  younger  had  an  aspect  of  command, — 

Not  such  as  trickles  down,  a  slender  stream, 

In  the  shrunk  chatinel  of  a  great  descent, — 

But  such  as  lies  entowered  in  heart  and  head, 

And  an  arm  prompt  to  do  the  'bests  of  both. 

His  was  a  brow  where  gold  were  out  of  place, 

And  yet  it  seemed  right  worthy  of  a  crown, 

(Though  he  despised  such,)  were  it  only  made 

Of  iron,  or  some  serviceable  stuff  * 

That  would  have  matched  his  sinewy,  brown  face. 

The  elder,  although  such  he  hardly  seemed, 

(Care  makes  so  little  of  some  five  short  years,) 

Had  a  clear,  honest  face,  whose  rough  hewn  strength 

Was  mildened  by  the  scholar's  wiser  heart 

To  sober  courage,  such  as  best  befits 

The  unsullied  temper  of  a  well  taught-mind, 

Yet  so  remained  that  one  could  plainly  guess 

The  hushed  volcano  smouldering  underneath. 

He  spoke  :  the  other,  hearing,  kept  his  gaze 

S-till  fixed,  as  on  some  problem  in  the  sky. 

"  0,  CncMWELL,  we  are  fallen  on  evil  times  ! 
There  was  a  day  when  England  had  wide  room 
For  honest  men  as  well  as  foolish  kings  ; 
But  now  the  uneasy  stomach  of  the  time 
Turns  squeamish  at  them  both.     Therefore  let  us 
Seek  out  that  savage  clime  where  men  as  yet 
Are  free  :  there  sleeps  the  vessel  on  the  tide. 
Her  languid  canvass  drooping  for  the  wind  ; 
Give  us  but  that,  and  what  need  we  to  fear 
This  Order  of  the  Council  ?      The  free  waves 
Will  not  say,  No,  to  please  a  wayward  king. 
Nor  will  the  winds  turn  traitors  at  his  beck  : 
All  things  are  fitly  cared  for,  and  the  Lord 
Will  watch  as  kindly  o'er  the  Exodus 
Of  us  his  servants  now,  as  in  old  lime. 
We  have  no  cloud  or  firC;  and  haply  we 
May  not  pass  dry-shod  through  the  ocean  stream  ; 
But,  saved  or  lost,  all  things  are  in  His  hand." 
So  spake  he,  and  meantime  the  other  stood 
VA'ith  wide  gray  eyes  still  reading  the  blank  air. 
As  if  upon  the  sky's  blue  wall  he  saw 
Some  mystic  sentence,  written  by  a  hand, 
Such  as  of  old  did  awe  the  Assyrian  king. 
Girt  with  his  satraps  in  the  blazing  feast. 

"  Hampden  !  a  moment  since,  my  purpo.-e  was 
To  fly  with  thee,— for  I  will  call  it  flight. 
Nor  flatter  it  with  any  smoother  name, — 


254 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


But  something  in  me  bids  me  not  to  go  ; 

And  I  am  one,  thou   kiiovvest,  who,  unmoved 

]}y  what  the  weak  deem  omens,  yet  give  beeJ 

And  reverence  due  to  whatsoe'er  my  soul 

Whispers  of  warn  ng  to  the  inner  ear. 

Moreover,  as  I  know  tliat  God  brings  round 

His  purposes  in  ways  undreamed  by  us, 

And  makes  the  wicked  but  his  instruments 

To  hasten  on  their  swift  and  sudden  fall, 

I  see  the  beauty  of  his  providence 

In  the  King's  order  :  blind,  he  will  not  let 

His  doom  part  from  him,  but  must  bid  it  stay 

As  't  were  a  cricket,  whose  enlivening  chirp 

He  loved  to  hear  beneath  his  very  hearth. 

Why  should  we  fly  ?     Nay,  why  not  rather  stay 

And  rear  again  our  Zion's  crumbled  walls, 

Not;  as  of  old  the  walls  of  Thebes  were  built, 

By  minstrel  twanging,  but,  if  need  should  be, 

With  the  more  potent  music  of  our  swords  ? 

Think'st  thou  that  score  of  men  beyond  the  sea 

Claim  more  God's  care  than  all  of  England  here? 

No  :  when  He  m  )ves  his  arm.  it  is  to  aid 

Whole  peoples,  heedless  if  a  few  be  crirshed, 

As  some  are  ever  when  the  destiny 

Of  man  takes  one  stride  onward  nearer  home. 

Believe  it,  't  is  the  mass  of  men  He  loves; 

And,  where  there  is  most  sorrow  and  most  want. 

Where  the  high  heart  of  man  is  trodden  down 

The  most,  't  is  not  because  He  hides  his  face 

From  them  in  wrath,  as  purblind  teachers  prate  : 

Not  so  :  there  most  is  He,  for  there  is  He 

Most  needed.     Men  who  seek  for  Fate  abroad 

Are  not  so  near  his  heart  as  they  who  dare 

Frankly  to  face  her  when  she  faces  them, 

On  their  own  threshold,  where  their  souls  are  strong 

To  grapple  with  and  throw  her ;  as  I  once. 

Being  yet  a  boy,  did  throw  this  puny  king. 

Who  now  has  grown  so  dotard  as  to  deem 

That  he  can  wrestle  with  an  angry  realm, 

And  thrcrw  the  brawned  Anticus  of  men's  right.^. 

No,  Hampden  !  they  have  half-way  conquered  Fate 

Who  go  half-way  ta  meet  her, — as  will  I. 

Freedom  bath  yet  a  work  for  me  to  do  ; 

So  speaks  that  inward  voice  which  never  yet 

Spake  falsely,  when  it  urged  the  spirit  on 

To  noble  deeds  for  country  and  mankind. 

And,  for  success,  I  ask  no  more  than  this, — 

To  bear  unflinching  witness  to  the  truth. 

All  true,  whole  men  succeed  ;  /or  what  is  worth 

Success's  name,  unless  it  be  the  thought, 

The  inward  surety,  to  have  carried  out 

A  noble  purpose  to  a  noble  end. 

Although  it  be  the  gallows  or  the  block  ? 

'T  is  only  Falsehood  that  doth  ever  need 

These  outward  shows  of  gain  to  bolster  her. 

Be  it  we  prove  the  weaker  with  our  swords  ; 

Truth  only  needs  to  be  for  once  spoke  out. 

And  there's  such  music  in  her,  such  strange  rhythm, 

As  make  men's  memories  her  joyous  slaves, 


And  cling  around  the  soul,  as  the  sky  clings 
Round  the  mute  earth,  forever  beautiful. 
And,  if  o'erclouded,  only  to  burst  forth 
More  all-embracingly  divine  and  clear  : 
Get  but  the  truth  once  uttered,  and  't  is  like 
A  star  newborn,  that  drops  into  its  place, 
And  which,  once  circling  in  its  placid  round, 
Not  all  the  tumult  of  the  earth  can  shake. 

"  What  should  we  do  in  that  small  colony 
Of  pinched  fanatics,  who  would  rather  choose 
Freedom  to  clip  an  inch  more  from  their  hair, 
Than  the  great  chance  of  setting  England  free  ? 
Not  there,  amid  the  stormy  wilderness. 
Should  we  learn  wisdom  ;  or,  if  learned,  what  rooitt 
To  put  it  into  act, — else  worse  than  naught  ? 
We  learn  our  souls  more,  tossing  for  an  hour 
Upon  this  huge  and  ever-vexed  sea 
Of  human  thought,  where  kingdoms  go  to  wreck 
Like  fragile  bubbles  yonder  in  the  stream, 
Than  in  a  cycle  of  New  England  sloth, 
Broke  only  by  some  petty  Indian  war, 
Or  quarrel  for  a  letter,  more  or  less. 
In  some  hard  word,  which,  spelt  in  either  way, 
Not  their  most  learned  clerks  can  understand. 
New  times  demand  new  measures  and  new  men  ; 
The  world  advances,  and  in  time  outgrows 
The  laws  that  in  our  fathers'  day  were  best ; 
And,  doubtless,  after  us,  some  purer  scheme 
Will  be  shaped  out  by  wiser  men  than  we. 
Made  wiser  by  the  steady  growth  of  truth. 
We  cannot  bring  Utopia  at  once  ; 
But  better,  almost,  be  at  work  in  sin. 
Than  in  a  brute  inaction  browse  and  sleep. 
No  man  is  born  into  the  world,  whose  work 
Is  not  born  with  him  ;  there  is  always  w-ork, 
And  tools  to  work  withal,  for  those  who  will ; 
And  blessed  are  the  horny  hands  of  toil  ! 
The  busy  world  shoves  angrily  aside 
The  man  who  stands  with  arms  akimbo  set. 
Until  occasion  tells  him  what  to  do  ; 
And  he  who  waits  to  have  his  task  marked  out 
Shall  die  and  leave  his  errand  unfulfilled. 
Our  time  is  one  that  calls  for  earnest  deeds  : 
Reason  and  Government,  like  two  broad  seas, 
Yearn  for  each  other  with  outstretched  arms 
.•\cross  this  narrow  isthmus  of  the  throne, 
.\nd  roll  their  white  surf  higher  every  day. 
One  age  moves  onward,  and  the  next  builds  up 
Cities  and  gorgeous  palaces,  where  stood 
The  rude  log  huts  of  those  who  tartied  the  wild, 
Rearing  from  out  the  forests  they  had  felled 
The  goodly  framework  of  a  fairer  state; 
The  builder's  trowel  and  the  settler's  axe 
Are  seldom  wielded  by  the  selfsame  hand  ; 
Ours  is  the  harder  task,  yet  not  the  less 
Shall  we  receive  the  blessing  for  our  toil 
From  the  choice  spirits  of  the  aftertime. 
The  Held  lies  wide  before  us,  where  to  reap 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


255 


The  easy  harvest  of  a  deathless  name, 

Though  with  no  better  sickles  tlian  our  swords. 

M}^  soul  is  not  a  pa)ace  of  the  past, 

Where    outworn  creeds,  liice  Rome's  gray   senate, 

quake, 
Hearing  afar  the  Vandal's  trumpet  hoarse. 
That  shakes  old  systems  with  a  thunder-fit. 
The  time  is  ripe,  and  rotten-ripe,  for  change  ; 
Then  let  it  come  :  I  have  no  dread  of  what 
Is  called  for  by  the  instinct  of  mankind  ; 
Nor  think  I  that  God's  world  will  fall  apart, 
Because  we  tear  a  parchment  more  or  less. 
Truth  is  eternal,  but  her  eflluence, 
With  endless  change,  is  fitted  to  the  hour  ; 
Her  mirror  is  turned  forward,  to  reflect 
The  promise  of  the  future,  not  the  past. 
He  who  would  win  the  name  of  truly  great 
Must  understand  bis  own  age  and  the  next, 
And  make  the  present  ready  to  fulfil 
Its  prophecy,  and  with  the  future  merge 
Gently  and  peacefully,  as  wave  with  wave. 
The  future  works  out  great  men's  destinies ; 
The  present  is  enough  for  common  souls. 
Who,  never  looking  forward,  are  indeed 
Mere  clay  wherein  the  footprints  of  their  age 
Are  petrified  forever  :  better  those 
Who  lead  the  blind  old  giant  by  the  hand 
From  out  the  pathless  desert  where  he  gropes. 
And  set  him  onward  in  his  darksome  way. 
I  do  not  fear  to  follow  out  the  truth, 
Albeit  along  the  precipice's  edge. 
Let  us  speak  plain  :  there  is  more  force  in  names 
Than  most  men  dream  of;  and  a  lie  may  keep 
Its  throne  a  whole  age  longer,  if  it  skulk 
Behind  the  shield  of  some  fair-seeming  name. 
Let  us  call  tyrants,  tyrants,  and  maintain. 
That  only  freedom  comes  by  grace  of  God, 
And  all  that  comes  not  by  his  grace  must  fall ; 
For  men  in  earnest  have  no  time  to  waste 
In  patching  fig-leaves  for  the  naked  truth. 

"  I  will  have  one  more  grapple  with  the  man 
Charles  Stuart  :  whom  the  boy  o'ercame, 
,The  man  stands  not  in  awe  of.     I,  perchance, 
Am  one  raised  up  by  the  Almighty  arm 
To  witness  some  great  truth  to  all  the  world. 
Souls  destined  to  o'erleap  the  vulgar  lot, 
And  mould  the  world  unto  the  scheme  of  God, 
Have  a  foreconsciousness  of  their  high  doom  ; 
As  men  are  known  to  shiver  at  the  heart, 
When  the  cold  shadow  of  some  coming  ill 
Creeps  slowly  o'er  their  spirits  unawares. 
Hath  Good  less  power  of  prophecy  than  111  ? 
How  else  could  men  whom  God  hath  called  to  sway 
Earth's  rudder,  and  to  steer  the  bark  of  Truth, 
Beating  against  the  wind  toward  her  port. 
Bear  all  the  mean  and  buzzing  grievances, 


The  petty  martyrdoms,  wherewith  Sin  strives 
''o  weary  out  the  tethered  hope  of  Faith, 
I'he  sneers,  the  unrecognizing  look  of  friends, 
Who  worship  the  dead  corjjse  of  old  king  Custom, 
Where  it  doth  lie  in  st.ate  within  the  Church, 
Striving  to  cover  up  the  mighty  ocean 
With  a  man's  palm,  and  making  even  the  truth 
Lie  for  them,  holding  up  the  glass  reversed, 
To  make  the  hope  of  man  seem  Anther  off? 
My  God  !  when  I  read  o'er  the  bitter  lives 
Of  men  whose  eager  liearts  were  quite  too  great 
To  beat  beneath  the  cramped  mode  of  the  day. 
And  see  them  mocked  at  by  the  world  they  love. 
Haggling  with  prejudice  for  pennyworths 
Of  that  reform  which  their  hard  toil  will  make 
The  common  birthright  of  the  age  to  come, — 
When  I  see  this,  spite  of  my  faith  in  God, 
r  marvel  how  their  hearts  bear  up  so  long ; 
Nor  could  they,  but  for  this  same  prophecy, 
This  inward  feeling  of  the  glorious  end. 

<<  Deem  me  not  fond  ;  but    in  my  warmer  youth, 
Ere  my  heart's  bloom  was  soiled  and  brushed  away, 
I  had  great  dreams  of  mighty  things  to  come; 
Ol  conquest,  whether  by  the  sword  or  pen 
I  knew  not ;  but  some  conquest  I  would  have. 
Or  else  swift  death :  now,  wiser  grown  in  years, 
I  find  youth's  dreams  are  but  the  flutterings 
Of  those  strong  wings  whereon  the  soul  shall  soar 
In  aftertime  to  win  a  starry  throne  ; 
And  so  I  cherish  them,  for  they  were  lots 
Which  I,  a  boy,  cast  in  the  helm  of  Fate. 
Now  will  I  draw  them,  since  a  man's  right  hand, 
A  right  hand  guided  by  an  earnest  soul. 
With  a  true  instinct,  takes  the  golden  prize 
From  out  a  thousand  blanks.     What  men  call    luck 
Is  the  perogative  of  valiant  souls, 
'J"he  fealty  life  pays  its  rightful  kmgs. 
The  helm  is  shaking  now,  and  I  will    stay 
To  pluck  my  lot  forth ;  it  were  sin  to  flee  !" 

So  they  two  turned  together ;  one  to  die, 
Fighting  for  freedom  on  the  bloody  field  ; 
The  other,  far  more  happy,  to  become 
A  name  earth  wears  forever  next  her  heart : 
One  of  the  few  that  have  a  right  to  rank 
With  the  true  Makers  :  for  his  spirit  wrought 
Order  from  Chaos ;  proved  that  right  divine 
Dwelt  only  in  the  excellence  of  Truth; 
.^nd  far  within  old  Darkness'  hostile  lines 
Advanced  and  pitched  the  shining  tents  of  Light. 
Nor  shall  the  grateful  Muse  forget  to  tell, 
That — not  the  least  among  his  many  claims 
To  deathless  honor — he  was  Mii ton's  friend, 
A  man  not  second  among  those  who  lived 
To  show  us  that  the  poet's  lyre  demands 
An  arm  of  tougher  sinew  than  the  sword. 


256 


V  (11  C  E  S    OF    THE    T  R  U  K  -  H  F.  A  R  T  E  D  . 


A  DAY  IN  AUTUMN. 

nr  JOHN  II    r.UYANT. 
One  raml)Ie  through  the  woods  with  me, 

'J'hou  dear  companion  of  my  days  ! 
Tliese  mighty  woods,  how  quietly 

They  sleep  in  autumn's  gohicn  haze! 

The  gay  leaves  twinkling  in  the  hieeze, 
Still  to  the  forest  branches  cling, 

'J'hey  lie  like  hiossoms  on  the  trees — 
The  brightest  blossoms  of  the  spring. 

Flowers  linger  in  each  sheltered  nook, 
And  still  the  cheerful  song  of  bird, 

And  murmur  of  the  bee  and  brook. 

Through  all  the  quiet  groves  are  heard. 

And  bell  of  kine  that  sauntering  browse, 
An<I  squirrel,  chirping  as  he  hides 

"Where  gorgeously,  with  crimson  boughs. 
The  creeper  clothes  the  oak's  gray  sides. 

How  mild  the  light  in  all  the  skies  ! 

How  balmily  this  south  wind  blows  ! 
The  smile  of  God  around  us  lies, 

His  rest  is  in  this  deep  repose. 

These  whispers  of  the  flowing  air, 
These  waters  that  in  music  fall. 

These  sounds  of  peaceful  life,  declare 
The  Love  that  keeps  and  hushes  all. 

Then  let  us  to  the  forest  shade, 

And  roam  its  paths  the  live-long  day; 

These  glorious  hours  were  never  made 
In  life's  dull  cares  to  waste  away. 

We'll  wander  by  the  running  stream. 
And  pull  the  wild  grape  hanging  o'er. 

And  list  the  fisher's  startling  scream, 
That  perches  by  the  pebbly  shore. 

And  when  the  sun,  to  his  repose, 

Sinks  in  the  rosy  west  at  even. 
And  over  field  and  forest  throws 

A  hue  that  makes  them  seem  like  heaven. 

We'll  overlook  the  glorious  land. 

From  the  green  brink  of  yonder  height. 

And  silently  adore  the  hand 

That  made  our  world  so  fair  and  bright. 


CLEAR  THE  WAY. 

Men  of  thought '.  be  up  and  stirring 

Night  and  day : 
^-'ow  the  seed — withdraw  the  curtain — 

Clear  the  way  ! 
Men  of  action,  aid  and  cheer  them, 

As  ye  may  1 


There's  a  fount  about  to  stream. 
There's  a  light  about  to  beam. 
There's  a  warmth  about  to  glow, 
'i'here's  a  flower  about  to  blow, 
There's  a  midnight  blackness  changing 

In^o  gray: 
jMcii  of  thought  and  men  of  action, 

Clear  the  w*.y  ! 

Once  the  welcome  light  has  broken, 

Who  shall  say 
What  the  unimagined  glories 

Of  the  day  ? 
What  the  evil  that  shall  perish 

In  its  ray? 

Aid  the  dawning,  tongue  and  pen  : 
Aid  it,  hopes  of  honest  men: 
Aid,  it  paper — aid  it,  type — 
Aid  it,  for  the  hour  is  ripe. 
And  our  earnest  must  not  slacken 

Into  play; 
JMon  of  thought  and  men  of  action. 

Clear  the  way  ! 

Lo !  a  cloud's  about  to  vanish 

From  the  day; 
Lo  I  the  right's  about  to  conquer. 

Clear  the  way  ! 
And  a  brazen  wrong  to  crumble 

Into  clay. 

With  that  right  shall  many  more 
Enter  smiling  at  the  door  ; 
With  the  giant  Wrong  shall  fall 
Many  others,  great  and  small, 
That  for  ages  long  have  held  us 

For  their  prey ; 
Men  of  thought,  and  men  of  action. 

Clear  the  way  ! 


SONNET. 

nY    JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE. 

Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  Parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  Frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  Light  and  Blue  ? 

Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew. 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  Host  of  Heaven  came. 
And,  lo  !  Creation  widened  in  man's  view. 

Who    could  have   thought   such  Darkness   lay  con- 
cealed 
Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun  !  or  who  could  find 

Whilst  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  Orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind? 

Why  do  we  then  shun  Death  with  anxious  strife  ? 

If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life  ? 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-IIEAllTED. 

m®o  Wo 


TO  THE  EVENING  WIND. 

BY  WILLIAM  CULLEX  BRYANT. 

Spirit  that  treathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now. 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their 
spray. 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea  ! 

Nor  I  alone— a  thousand  bosoms  round 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight  ; 

And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 
Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 

And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 
Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 

Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade  ;  go  forth, 

God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest. 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest. 
Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast ; 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass. 

And  'twixt  the  o'ershadowing  branches  and  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 
»And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep. 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grattjful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

^  That  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 

With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range. 

Thee  to  thy  birth-place  of  the  deep  once  more  ; 
Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange. 

Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore  ; 
And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 
He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 

33 


LABOR. 


BY    FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD. 


Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us  ! 

Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that  come  o'er  us! 

Hark,  how  Creation's  deep,  musical  chorus 

Unintermitting,  goes  up  into  Heaven  ! 
Never  the  ocean  wave  falters  in  flowing; 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing  ; 
More  and  more  richly  the  Rose-heart  keeps  glowing, 

Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

"  Labor  is  worship  !" — the  robin  is  singing  ; 
"  Labor  is  worship!" — the  wild  bee  is  ringing; 
Listen!  that  eloquent  whisper  upspringing 

Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  nature's  great  heart; 
From  the  dark  cloud  flows  the  life-giving  shower  ; 
From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft  breathing  flower ; — 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower. 

Only  man,  in  the  plan,  ever  shrinks  from  his  part. 

Labor  is  life  ! — 'Tis  the  still  water  faileth  ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth  ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust  assaileth  ! 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
Labor  is  glory  ! — the  flying  cloud  lightens  ; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  brightens  ; 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens  ; 

Play    the  sweet  keys    wouldst  thou  keep  them  in 
tune  ! 

Labor  is  rest — from  the  sorrows  that  greet  us ; 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us. 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  entreat  us, 

Rest  from  world-syrens  that  lures  us  to  ill. 
Work — and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy  pillow; 
Work — Thou  shalt  ride  over  Care's  coming  billow  ; 
Lie  not  down  wearied  'neath  Wo's  weeping  willow! 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will  ! 

Droop  not  though  shame,   sin  and  anguish  are  round 

thee  ! 
Bravely  fling  oft  the  cold  chain  that  hath  bound  thee! 
Look  to  yon  pure  Heaven  smiling  beyond  thee  ! 

Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness — a   clod  ! 
Work — for  some  good, — be  it  ever  so  slowly  ! 
Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly  ! 
Labor  !  "  True  labor  is  noble  and  holy ; — 

Let    thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy    God  ! 


258  VOICES    OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


A  LYRIC   FOR   THE   TIMES. 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the  broad  earth's  aching  breast 

Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from  east  to  west. 

And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  the  soul  within  him  climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sublime 

Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the  thorny  stem  of  Time. 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots  the  instantaneous  throe 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings  earth's  systems  to  and  fro: 

At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a  recognizing  start, 

Nation  wildly  looks  at  nation,  standing  with  mute  lips  apart, 

And  glad  Truth's  yet  mightier  man-child  leaps  beneath  the  Future's  heart. 

So  the  Evil's  triumph  sendeth,  with  a  terror  and  a  chill, 
Under  continent  to  continent,  the  sense  of  coming  ill, 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  his  sympathy  with  God 
In  hot  tear-drops  ebbing  earthward,  to  be  drunk  up  by  the  sod, 
Till  a  corpse  crawls  round  unburied,  delving  in  the  nobler  clo«l. 

For  mankind  is  one  in  spirit,  and  an  instinct  bears  along 
Round  the  earth's  electric  circle,  the  swift  flash  of  right  or  wrong  j 
Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet  Humanity's  vast  frame 
Through  its  ocean  sundered  fibres  feels  the  gush  of  joy  or  shame ; — 
In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race,  all  the  rest  have  equal  claim. 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  comes  the  moment  to  decide, 

In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or  evil  side; 

Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah,  ofliering  each  the  bloom  or  blight, 

Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  sheep  upon  the  right. 

And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  darkness  and  that  light. 

Have  ye  chosen,  0  my  people,  on  whose  party  ye  shall  stand, 
Ere  the  Doom  from  its  worn  sandals  shake  its  dust  against  our  land? 
Though  the  cause  of  evil  prosper,  yet  the  Truth  alone  is  strong, 
And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  I  see  around  her  throng 
Troops  of  beautiful  tall  angels  to  enshield  her  from  all  wrong. 

Backward  look  across  the  ages,  and  the  beacon-actions  see, 

That,  like  peaks  of  some  sunk  continent,  jut  through  oblivion's  sea ; 

Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the  low  foreboding  cry 

Of  those  Crises,  God's  stern  winnowers,  from  whose  feet  earth's  chaff  must  fly; 

Never  shows  the  choice  momentous  till  the  judgment  hath  passed  by. 

Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger;  history's  pages  but  record 
One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twix  old  systems  and  the  Word  ; 
Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold.  Wrong  forever  on  the  throne, — 
Yet  that  scaflbld  sways  the  fntnre,  and,  behind  the  dim  unknown, 
Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  his  own. 

We  see  dimly  in  the  Present  what  is  small  and  what  is  great, 

Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn  the  iron  helm  of  fate  ; 

But  the  soul  is  still  oracular;  amid  the  market's  din. 

List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the  Delphic  cave  within, — 

"They  enslave  their  children's  children,  who  make  compromise  with  sin." 


VOICES    OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


259 


Slavery,  the  eartli-born  Cyclops,  fellest  of  the  giant  brood, 

Sons  of  brutish  Force  and  Darkness,  who  have  drenched  the  earth  with  blood. 

Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blinded  by  our  purer  day, 

Gropes  in  yet  unblasted  regions  for  his  miserable  prey : 

Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where  our  helpless  children  play? 

Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble,  when  we  share  her  wretched  crust, 
Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,  and  'tis  prosperous  to  be  just; 
Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  when  the  coward  stands  aside, 
Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  till  his  Lord  is  crucified, 
And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the  faith  they  had  denied. 

For  Humanity  sweeps  onward ;  where  to-day  the  martyr  stands, 
On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the  silver  in  his  hands ; 
Far  in  front  the  Cross  stands  ready,  and  the  crackling  faggots  burn. 
While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in  silent  awe  return 
To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  History's  golden  urn. 

'Tis  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 

Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our  fathers'  graves: 

Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the  present  light  a  crime, — 

Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards,  steered  by  men  behind  their  time  ? 

Turn  those  tracks  toward  Past  or  Future,  that  make  Plymouth  rock  sublime  ? 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  stalwart  old  iconoclasts, 

Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all  virtue  was  the  Past's ; 

But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood,  thinking  that  hath  made  us  free, 

Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments,  while  our  tender  spirits  flee 

The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse,  which  drove  them  across  the  sea. 

They  have  rights  who  dare  maintain  them ;  we  are  traitors  to  our  sires, 
Smothering  in  their  holy  ashes  Freedom's  new-lit  altar  fires; 
Shall  we  make  their  creed  our  jailor  ?     Shall  we,  in  our  haste  to  slay, 
From  the  tombs  of  the  old  prophets  steal  the  funeral  lamps  away, 
To  light  up  the  martyr-faggots  round  the  prophets  of  to-day  1 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties  ;  Time  makes  ancient  good  uncouth ; 
They  must  upward,  still,  and  onward,  who  would  keep  abreast  of  Truth  ; 
Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires  !  we  ourselves  must  Pilgrims  be, 
Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through  the  desperate  winter  sea, 
Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's  blood-rusted  key. 


SONG. 

BY  THOMAS  MOORE. 


Oh,  no  ! — not  e'en  when  first  we  loved, 

Were  thou  as  dear  as  now  thou  art, 
Thy  beauty  then  my  senses  moved, 

But  now  thy  virtues  bind  my  heart. 
What  was  but  passion's  sigh  before. 

Has  since  been  turned  to  reason's  vow : 
And  though  I  then  might  love  thee  more, 

Trust  me,  I  love  thee  better  now  ! 


Although  my  heart,  in  earlier  youth, 

Might  kindle  with  more  wild  desire; 
Believe  me  it  has  gained  in  truth 

Much  more  than  it  has  lost  in  fire. 
The  flame  now  warms  my  inmost  core 

That  then  but  sparkled  on  my  brow; 
And  though  I  seemed  to  love  thee  more. 

Yet  oh  I  love  thee  better  now. 


260 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


THE  FALCONER 

BY    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELI.. 

I  have  a  falcon  swift  and  peerless 

As  e'er  was  cradled  in  the  pine, 

No  bird  had  ever  eye  so  fearless 

Or  wing  so  strong  as  this  of  mine; 

The  winds  not  better  love  to  pilot 

The  clouds  with  molten  gold  o'errun, 

Than  him,  a  little  burning  islet, 

A  star  above  the  sunken  sun. 

But  better  he  loves  the  lusty  morning 

When  the  last  white  star  yet  stands  at  bay, 

And  earth,  half-waked,  smiles  a  child's  forewarning 

Of  the  longed-for  mother-kiss  of  day; 

Then  with  a  lark's  heart  doth  he  tower, 

By  a  glorious  upward  instinct  drawn, — 

No  bee  nestles  deeper  in  the  flower, 

Than  he  in  the  bursting  rose  of  dawn. 

What  joy  to  see  his  sails  uplifted 

Against  the  worst  that  gales  can  dare, 

Through  the  northwester's  surges  drifted. 

Bold  viking  of  the  sea  of  air! 

His  eye  is  fierce,  yet  mildened  over 

With  somelhing  of  a  dove-like  ruth, 

I  am  his  master  less  than  lover, — 

His  short  and  simple  name  is  Truth. 

Whene'er  some  hoary  owl  of  Error 

Lags,  though  his  native  night  be  past. 

And  at  the  sunshine  hoots  his  terror, 

The  falcon  from  my  wrist  I  cast; 

Swooping,  he  scares  the  birds  uncleanly 

That  in  the  holy  temple  prey. 

Then  in  the  blue  air  floats  serenely 

Above  their  Vioarse  anathema. 

The  herd  of  patriot  wolves,  that,  stealing. 

To  gorge  on  martyred  Freedom  run. 

Fly,  howling,  when  his  shadow,  wheeling. 

Flashes  between  them  and  the  sun  ; 

Well  for  them  that  our  once  proud  eagle 

Forgets  his  empire  of  the  sky. 

And,  stript  of  every  emblem  regal, 

Does  buzzard's  work  for  Slavery. 

Mount  up.  my  falcon  brave  and  kingly, 

Stoop  not  from  thy  majestic  height. 

The  terror  of  thy  shadow,  singly. 

Can  put  a  thousand  wrongs  to  flight; 

Wherever  in  all  God's  dominions 

One  ugly  falsehood  lurks  apart. 

Let  the  dread  rustle  of  thy  pinions 

Send  palsy  to  its  traitor-heart. 

No  harmless  dove,  no  bird  that  singeth, 

Shudders  to  see  thee  overhead ; 

Tlie  rush  of  thy  fierce  swooping  bringeth 

To  innocent  hearts  no  thrill  of  dread  ; 

Let  frauds  and  wrongs  and  falsehoods  shiver. 

For,  still,  between  them  and  the  sky, 

The  falcon  Truth  hangs  poised  forever, 

Anil  marks  them  vvith  his  vengeful  eye. 


LOVE  AND  LIVE. 

I  said  once,  madly,  that  I'd  hate  my  race, 

For  so  much  base  ingratitude  and  wrong 
As  it  had  measured  out  to  me,  in  place 
Of  justice,  which  it  had  deferred  so  long. 
My  best  affections  I  thought  wasted  long  enough, 
On  what  rewarded  only  with  a  cold  rebuff. 

I  turned  away,  and  went  in  search  of  rest 

And  peace  in  Nature's  quiet  solitude  : — 
Here  all  I  found  with  loving  kindness  blest, 
And  here  I  found  for  resignation, — food  ; — 
Here  first  I  learnt  to  know*  myself,  and  sought  to  know 
What  I  was  for,  and  what  for  all  things  live  and  grow. 

In  stagnant  pools  I  saw^  the  lily  nourished 

By  fragrant  roses  on  their  borders  shaded; 
I  saw  the  woodbine  here  with  ivy  flourished. 
And  birds  for  pleasure  in  their  waters  waded; 
I  saw  pink  meadow-sweet  by  poison  hemlock  grow, 
And  read  a  lesson  here — a  truth  that  all  should  know. 

I  wandered  to  the  woods  and  cheerful  groves, 

And  found  them  full  of  joy  and  melody; 
The  birds  seemed  happy  singing  of  their  loves. 
And  nought  seemed  lonely  I  could  hear  or  see ; 
The  flowers  gave  their  bloom  and  fragrance  to  each 

other. 
And  all  seemed   near  akin — as   near   as   friend  or 
brother. 

The  trees  were  social  and  the  flowers  and  birds, 

And  nothing  lonely  was,  nor  yet  unloved  ; 

All  seemed  to  chide  my  mood  almost  in  words, 

More  eloquent  than  I  could  hear  unmoved  ; 

To  make  bird-cradJes,  vines  and  branches  interlocked. 

And  floral  bells  sang  lullabies  as  these  were  rocked. 

I  saw  that  nothing  could  exist  alone — 

That  all  was  made  by  love,  and  lived  for  love; 
And  all  that  lived  in  borrowed  colors  shone — 
All  bade  me  back  to  love  and  friendship  move, 
r  went,  and  tried  my  best  to  love  my  fellow-men, 
.And  by  the  law  of  life  abide,  and  live  again. 


THE    GOOD. 

BY  ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 
'<  Tlie  Prophets,  do  lliey  live  forever."— ZcrA.  1.5. 

Those  spirits  God  ordained 
To  stand  the  watchmen  on  the  outer  ^vall, 
Upon  whose  soul  the  beams  of  truth  first  fall. 

They  who  reveal  the  Ideal,  the  iinattained. 
And  to  their  age,  in  stirring  tones  and  high. 
Speak  out  for  God,  Truth,  Man  and  Liberty — 

Such  Prophets,  do  they  die? 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


261 


When  dust  to  dust  returns, 
And  the  freed  spirit  seeks  nsain  its  God, — 
'I'o  those  with  whom  the  blessed  ones  have  trod, 

Are  they  then  lost?     No,  still  their  spirit  burns 
And  quickens  in  the  race  ;  the  life  they  give 
Humanity  receives,  and  they  survive 

While  Hope  and  Virtue  live. 

The  land-marks  of  their  age, 
High-Priests,  Kings  of  the  realm  of  mind  are  they, 
A  realm  unbounded  as  posterity  ; 

The  hopeful  future  is  their  heritage ; 
Their  words  of  truth,  of  love  and  faith  sublime, 
To  a  dark  world  of  doubt,  despair  and  crime, 

Re-echo  through  all  time. 

Such  kindling  words  are  thine, 
Thou  o'er  whose  tomb  the  requiem  soundeth  still, 
Thou  from  whose  lips  the  silvery  tones  yet  thrill 

In  many  a  bosom,  waking  life  divine  ; 
And  since  thy  Master  to  the  world  gave  token 
That  for  Love's  faith  the  creed  of  fear  was  broken. 

None  higher  have  been  spoken. 

Thy  reverent  eye  could  see, 
Though  sinful,  weak,  and  wedded  to  the  clod. 
The  angel  soul  still  as  the  child  of  God 

Heir  of  His  love,  born  to  high  destiny  : 
Not  for  thy  country,  creed  or  sect  speak'st  thou, 
But  him  who  bears  God's  image  on  his  brow, 

Thy  brother,  high  or  low. 

Great  teachers  formed  thy  )'outh,* 
As  thou  didst  stand  upon  thy  native  shore; 
In  the  calm  sunshine,  in  the  ocean's  roar, 

Nature  and  God  spoke  with  thee,  and  the  truth 
That  o'er  thy  spirit  then  in  radiance  streamed. 
And  in  thy  life  so  calmly,  brightly  beamed, 

Shall  still  shine  on  undimmed. 

Ages  agone,  like  thee, 
The  famed  Greek  with  kindling  aspect  stood 
And  blent  his  eloquence  with  wind  and  flood 

By  the  blue  waters  of  the  Egean  Sea  ; 
But  he  heard  not  their  everlasting  hymn. 
His  lofty  soul  with  error's  cloud  was  dim, 

And  thy  great  teachers  spake  not  unto  him. 

*  "  In  this  town  I  piirsued  my  thcnlogical  studies.  I 
had  no  professor  to  gLiide  me,  but  I  had  tuo  noble  ])laces 
of  study.  One  was  yonder  beautiful  edifice  now  eo  fre- 
quented as  a  public  library;  the  oilier  Vvas  the  beach,  the 
roar  of  which  has  so  often  mingled  with  the  worship  of  Iliis 
place,  my  daily  resort,  dear  to  me  in  the  sunshine,  still 
more  attractive  in  the  storm.  Seldom  do  I  visit  it  now 
without  thinking  of  ihe  work,  which  there,  in  the  sight  ol 
that  beauty,  in  the  sound  of  those  waves,  wns  carried  on 
in  my  soul.  No  spot  on  earth  has  helped  to  form  mo  so 
much  as  that  beach.  There  I  lifted  up  my  voice  in  praise 
amidst  Ihe  tempest.  There,  softened  by  beauty,  I  poured 
out  my  thanksgiving  and  contrite  confessions.  There,  in 
reverential  sympathy  with  the  mighty  power  aiound  me, 
I  became  conscious  ol'the  power  within.  There,  strug- 
gling thoughts  and  emotions  broke  (orih,  as  if  moved  to 
utterance  by  nature's  eloquence  of  winds  and  waves. 
There  began  happiness  surpassing  all  worldly  pleasure, 
all  gifts  oi  fortune — the  happiness  of  communing  with  the 
work  of  God." — Dr.  Channin<T'$  Discourse  at  AewportJl.l- 


A    TRUE  PATRIOT. 

15Y    JA.lti:S    C.     FIELDS. 

It  is  related  that  when  Socrates  fell  a  victim  to 
the  passions  of  a  partial  tribunal,  and  a  deluded  peo- 
ple, and  all  his  disciples  were  terrified  into  flight, 
his  friend  Isocrates  had  the  honorable  intrepidity  to 
appear  in  the  streets  of  Athens  with  the  mourning 
garb. 

Ha  !  leave  ye,  in  afi'right. 
That  sad,  unmanly  sight, — 

'I'he  corse  alone ! 
Have  you  not  one  true  heart. 
That  thus  from  him  ye  part? 
Are  all, — all  gone? 

Reel  back,  ye  cowering  slaves  ! 
Blanch,  ye  Athenian  knaves, 

With  pallid  fear! 
Look  where  the  true  man  stands,^ 
Look  !  for  the  dead  commands, 

The  grey-haired  seer ! 

Gaze  on  the  patriot  now, 
With  still  unruffled  brow. 

In  mourning  robes ; 
Tremble !  he  fears  ye  not — 
Stand  back  I  he  seeks  the  spot — 

Grief  his  heart  probes  ! 

See  how  your  soil  he  spurns, 
A  lofty  soul  he  mourns, 

Low  bows  his  head. 
Say,  can  ye  longer  sleep? 
Weep  !  guilty  cowards,  weep  ! 

Weep  for  the  dead. 

Ay  !  let  the  rushing  tear 
Down  every  cheek  appear, 

In  sorrow  driven. 
Pale  are  the  lips  that  spoke, 
Hushed  are  the  tones  that  woke 

Calm  thoughts  of  heaven  ! 

Haste  !  inatron,  maid,  and  son, — 
Cry  to  each  slumbering  one, 

<<  Behold  the  slain." 
Pass  on  through  every  street, 
Bid  every  voice  ye  meet 

Take  up  the  strain  ! 

Go,  charge  the  flying  Greek 
That  reverend  form  to  seek, 

That  silent  bier ; 
Let  not  the  city's  walls 
Hold  back  your  frenzied  calls. 

The  world  must  hear ! 

Oh  !  ye  have  crushed  the  tie 
Which  bound  that  pulse  ;  no  sigh 

Can  break  the  spell  ; 
In  vain  ye  crowd  around, 
He  hears  no  sob,  no  sound, 

Godlike  I — Farewell ! 


263 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


GONE. 


BT  JOHN  G.     WnilTIER. 


Gone  before 


To  that  unneen  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet  as  heretofore 

Some  summer  morning  ?" — L^lmb. 

Another  hand  is  beckoning  us, 

Another  call  is  given; 
And  glows  once  more  with  Angel-steps 

The  path  which  reaches  Heaven. 

Our  young  and  gentle  friend  whose  smile 

Made  brighter  summer  hours, 
Amid  the  frosts  of  autumn  time 

Has  left  us,  with  the  flowers. 

No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 

Forewarned  us  of  decay ; 
No  shadow  from  the  Silent  Land 

Fell  around  our  sister's  way. 

The  light  of  her  young  life  went  down, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a  setting  star — 

Clear,  suddenly  and  still. 

As  pure  and  sweet,  her  fair  brow  seemed — 

Eternal  as  the  sky  ; 
And  like  the  brook's  low  song,  her  voice — 

A  sound  which  could  not  die. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 

The  changing  of  her  sphere. 
To  give  to  Heaven  a  Shining  One, 

Who  walked  an  Angel  here. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew  ; 
And  good  thoughts,  where  her  footsteps  fell, 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book  : 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn, 
To  which  our  hearts  could  move  ; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm  ; 
A  canticle  of  love. 

We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer, 
And  by  the  hearth-fire's  light ; 

We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 
Once  more  her  sweet  "  Good  night !" 

There  seems  a  shadow  on  the  day, 

Her  smile  no  longer  cheers  ; 
A  dimness  on  the  stars  of  night, 

Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father's  will 

One  thought  hath  reconciled  ; 
That  he  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 

Hath  taken  home  His  child. 


Fold  her,  oh  Father  !  in  thine  arms, 

And  let  her  henceforth  be 
A  messenger  of  love  between 

Our  human  hearts  and  Thee. 

Still  let  her  mild  rebuking  stand 

Between  us  and  the  wrong, 
And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  make 

Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong. 

And,  grant  that  she  who,  trembling,  here 

Distrusted  all  her  powers. 
May  welcome  to  her  holier  home 

The  well  belovd  of  ours. 


LIGHT. 

BY  EBENEZER    ELLIOT. 

God  said,  '  Let  tjiere  be  light!' 
Grim  darkness  felt  his  might, 

And  fled  away ; 
Then,  startled  seas  and  mountains  cold 
Shone  forth,  all  bright  in  blue  and  gold, 

And  cried,  ''Tis  day!  'tis  day!' 

«  Hail,  holy  light !'  exclaim'd 
The  thunderous  cloud  that  flamed 

O'er  daisies  white  ; 
And  lo,  the  rose,  in  crimson  dress'd, 
Lean'd  sweetly  on  the  lily's  breast, 

And  blushing,  murmur'd,  'Light' 

Then  was  the  sky-lark  born  ; 
Then  rose  the  embattled  corn  ; 

Then  floods  of  praise 
Flow'd  o'er  the  sunny  hills  of  noon. 
And  then,  in  stillest  night,  the  moou 

Pour'd  forth  her  pensive  lays. 

Lo,  heaven's  bright  bow  is  glad  ! 
Lo,  trees  and  flowers  all  clad 

In  glory,  bloom  I 
And  shall  the  mortal  sons  of  God 
Be  senseless  as  the  troilden  clod  ; 

Aud  darker  than  the  tomb  ? 

No,  by  the  mind  of  man  ! 
By  the  swart  artisan  ! 

By  God,  our  sire! 
Our  souls  have  holy  light  within. 
And  every  form  of  grief  and  sin 

Shall  see  and  feel  its  fire. 

By  earth,  and  hell,  and  heaven, 
The  shroud  of  souls  is  riven  ! 

Mind,  mind  alone, 
In  light,  and  hope,  and  life,  and  power  ! 
Earth's  deepest  night,  from  this  bless'd  hour, 

The  night  of  minds,  is  gone  ! 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


263 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

m  JOHN  G.   WIIITTIER. 

Where  time  the  measure  of  his  hours 
By  changeful  bud  and  blossom  keeps, 

And  like  a  young  bride  crowned  with  ilowers, 
Far  Shiraz  in  her  garden  sleeps  ; 

Where,  to  her  poet's  turban  stone. 
The  Spring  her  grateful  gifts  impart, 

Less  sweet  than  those  his  thoughts  have  sown 
In  the  warm  soil  of  Persian  hearts  ; 

There  sat  the  stranger,  where  the  shade 
Of  scattered  date-trees  thinly  lay, 

While  in  the  hot  clear  heaven  delayed 
The  long,  and  still,  and  weary  day. 

Strange  trees  and  fruits  above  him  hung, 
Strange  odors  filled  the  sultry  air, 

Strange  birds  upon  the  branches  swung, 
Strange  insect  voices  murmured  there. 

And  strange  bright  blossoms  shone  around, 
Turned  sunward  from  the  shadowy  bowers, 

As  if  the  Gheber's  soul  had  found 
A  fitting  home  in  Iran's  flowers. 

Whate'er  he  saw,  whate'er  he  heard, 
Awakened  feelings  new  and  sad, — 

No  Christian  garb,  nor  Christian  word, 
Nor  church  with  Sabbath  bell  chimes  glad, 

But  Moslem  graves,  with  turban  stones. 

And  mosque-spires  gleaming  white,  in  view, 

And  grey-beard  Mollahs  in  low  tones 
Chanting  their  Koran  service  through. 

As  if  the  burning  eye  of  Baal 

The  servant  of  his  Conqueror  knew, 

From  skies  which  knew  no  cloudy  veil, 
The  Sun's  hot  glances  smote  him  through, 

The  flowers  which  smiled  on  either  hand 
Like  tempting  fiends,  were  such  as  they 

Which  once,  o'er  all  that  Eastern  land, 
As  gifts  on  demon  altars  lay. 

"  Ah  me!''  the  lonely  stranger  said, 
•  <  The  hope  which  led  my  footsteps  on, 

And  light  from  Heaven  around  them  shed, 
O'er  weary  wave  and  waste,  is  gone  1 

«<  Where  are  the  harvest  fields  all  white, 
For  Truth  to  thrust  her  sickle  in  ? 

Where  flock  the  souls,  like  doves  in  flight 
From  the  dark  hiding  place  of  sin  1 

<'  A  silent  horror  broods  o'er  all — 

The  burden  of  a  hateful  spell — 
The  very  flowers  around  recall 

The  hoary  magi's  rites  of  hell ! 

"And  what  am  I,  o'er  such  a  land 
The  banner  of  the  Cross  to  bear  ? 

Dear  Lord  uphold  me  with  thy  hand. 

Thy  strength  with  human  weakness  share!" 


He  ceased ;  for  at  his  very  feet 

In  mild  rebuke,  a  floweret  smiled — 

How  thrilled  his  sinking  heart  to  greet 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin's  child! 

8own  by  some  wandering  Frank,  it  drew 

Its  life  from  alien  air  and  earth, 
And  told  to  Paynim  Sun  and  Dew 

The  story  of  the  Saviour's  birth. 

From  scorching  beams,  in  kindly  mood, 
The  Persian  plants  its  beauty  screened  ; 

And  on  its  pagan  sisterhood. 

In  love,  the  Christian  floweret  leaned. 

With  tears  of  joy  the  wanderer  felt 
The  darkness  of  his  long  despair 

Before  that  hallowed  symbol  melt, 
Which  God's  dear  love  had  nurtured  there. 

From  Nature's  face,  that  simple  flower 
The  lines  of  sin  and  sadness  swept ; 

And  Magian  pile  and  Paynim  bower 
In  peace  like  that  of  Eden  slept. 

Each  Moslem  tomb,  and  cypress  old, 
Looked  holy  through  the  sunset  air  ; 

And  angel-like,  the  Muezzin  told 

From  tower  and  mosque  the  hour  of  prayer. 

With  cheerful  steps,  the  morrow's  dawn 
From  Shiraz  saw  the  stranger  part ; 

The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin-Born 
Still  blooming  in  his  hopeful  heart ! 


SONG. 

BY  FELICIA  D.  HEilIANS. 

What  woke  the  buried  sound  that  lay 

In  Memnon's  harp  of  yore  ? 
What  spirit  on  its  viewless  way 

Along  the  Nile's  green  shore? 
Oh  !  not  the  night,  and  not  the  storm, 

And  not  the  lightning's  fire — 
But  sunlight's  touch — the  kind — the  warra- 

T/iis  woke  the  mystic  lyre  ! 

This,  this,  awoke  the  lyre  ! 

What  wins  the  heart's  deep  chords  to  pour 

Their  music  forth  on  life, 
Like  a  sweet  voice,  prevailing  o'er 

The  sounds  of  torrent  .strife  ? 
Oh  I  not  the  conflict  midst  the  throng, 

Nor  e'en  the  triumph's  hour  ; 
Love  is  the  gifted  and  the  strong 

To  wake  that  music's  power  f 

His  breath  awakes  that  power  ! 


264 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED. 


FOREFATHERS'  DAY. 

The  225th  anniversary  of  the  landinp;  of  the  Pilgrims 
was  celcl)ratcd  at  Plymouth  on  the  22il  inst  with  the 
usual  omptv  Jcclainatiou  about  their  virtues,  sufferinu:s 
and  sacrillces.  Ainoni^  those  who  made  specL-hes  at 
the  dinner  (jiven  on  the  occasion  were  Edward  Everett 
and  Rufus  Choate, — men  wlio  have  not  an  atom  of 
moral  heroism  in  their  composition,  and  who  stand  in 
this  evil  generaiion,  where  the  time-servinor  and  pusil- 
hmimous  in  all  aijcs  have  s'ood.  Respecting  this  mat- 
ter, we  find  in  the  Boston  Courier,  of  Tuesday  last, 
the  followin?  original  lines,  which  '  cut  to  the  quick,' 
and  which,  though  unaccompanied  hy  any  name  or 
signature,  we  are  almost  certain  were  written  by  that 
true  poet  of  Humanity  and  Freedom,  James  Russell 
Lowell. — Lilnrulor,  fur  2nd  mo.  2,  1846. 

AX  INTERVIEW  WITH  MILES  STANDISH. 
»'  I'll  take  the  gliosl's   word  for  .1  thousand  pounds."— //ani/rt. 
I  sate  one  evening  in  my  room 
In  that  sweet  hour  of  twilight, 

When  mingling  thoughts,— half  light,  half  gloom,— 
Throng  through  the  spirit's  skylight; 
The  flames  by  fits  curl'd  round  the  bars, 
And  up  the  chimney  crinkled, 
While  embers  dropped,  like  falling  stars, 
And  in  the  ashes  tinkled. 

I  sate  and  mused  ;  the  fire  burned  low, 

And,  o'er  my  senses  stealing, 

Crept  something  of  that  ruddy  glow 

Which  bloomed  on  wall  and  ceiling ; 

My  pictures  (they  are  very  few. 

The  heads  of  ancient  wise  men,) 

Smoothed  down  their  knotty  fronts,  and  grew 

As  rosy  as  excisemen. 

Mine  ancient,  high-backed  Spanish  chair 

Felt  thrills  through  wood  and  leather 

That  had  been  strangers  long  since,  while, 

'Mid  Andalusian  heather, 

The  oak,  that  made  its  sturdy  frame, 

His  happy  arms  stretched  over 

The  ox,  whose  fortunate  hide  became 

The  bottom's  polished  cover. 

It  came  out  in  that  famous  bark 

That  brought  our  sires  intrepid, 

Capacious  as  another  ark 

For  furniture  decrepid  ; 

For  as  that  saved  of  bird  and  beast 

A  pair  for  propagation. 

So  has  the  seed  of  these  increased. 

And  furnished  half  the  nation. 

Kings  sit,  they  say,  in  slippery  seats  ; 

But  those  slant  precipices 

Of  ice,  the  northern  sailor  meets. 

Less  slippery  are  than  this  is; 

To  cling  therein  would  pass  the  wit 

Of  royal  man  or  woman, 

And  whatsoe'r  can  stay  in  it 

Is  more  or  loss  than  human. 


My  wonder,  then,  was  not  unmixed 

With  merciful  suggestion, 

When,  as  my  musing  eye  grew  fixed 

Upon  the  chair  in  question, 

I  .saw  its  trembling  arms  enclose 

A  figure  grim  and  rusty, 

Whose  doublet  plain  and  plainer  hose 

Were  somewhat  worn  and  musty. 

Now  even  those  men  whom  nature  forms 

Only  to  fill  the  street  with, 

Once  changed  to  ghosts  by  hungry  worms. 

Are  serious  things  to  meet  with. 

Your  penitent  spirits  are  no  jokes. 

And,  though  Pm  not  averse  to 

A  cheerful  ghost,  they  are  not  folks 

One  chooses  to  speak  first  to. 

Who  knows,  thought  I,  but  he  has  come. 

By  Charon  kindly  ferried, 

To  tell  me  of  some  mighty  sum 

Behind  the  wainscot  buried  ? 

There  is  a  buccaiieerishair 

About  that  garb  outlandish — 

Just  then  the  ghost  drew  up  his  chair 

And  said,  "  My  name  is  Standish." 

There  was  a  bluntness  in  his  way 

That  pleased  my  taste  extremely  ; 

The  native  man  had  fullest  play. 

Unshackled  by  the  seemly  : 

His  bold,  gray  eye  could  not  conceal 

Some  flash  of  the  fanatic, 

His  words,  like  doughty  blows  on  steel. 

Rang  sharply  through  my  attic. 

<(  I  come  from  Plymouth,  deadly  bored 

With  songs  and  toasts  and  speeches 

As  long  and  flat  as  my  old  sword, 

.As  threadbare  as  my  breeches; 

They  understand  us  Pilgrims  !  they, 

Smooth  men  with  rosy  faces, 

Strength's  knots  and  gnarls  all  pared  away, 

And  varnish  in  their  places  I 

"  We  had  some  roughness  in  our  grain  ; 
The  eye  to  rightly  see  us  is 
Not  just  the  one  that  lights  the  brain 
Of  drawing-room  Tyrtauses  ;  — 
Such  talk  about  their  Pilgrim  blood, 
Their  birthrights  high  and  holy  !— 
A  mountain  stream  that  ends  in  mud 
Methiuks  is  melancholy. 

He  had  stiff  knees,  the  Puritan, 
That  were  not  good  at  bending  ; 
The  homespun  dignity  of  IMan 
He  thought  was  worth  defending  ; 
He  did  not,  with  his  pinchbeck  ore. 
His  country's  shame  forgotten, 
Cild  Freedom's  colRn  o'er  and  o'er 
While  all  within  was  rotten. 


V;OICES    OP    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


265 


These  loud  ancestral  boasts  of  yours, 
How  can  they  else  than  vox  us? 
Where  were  your  patriot  orators 
When  Slavery  grasped  at  Texas'? 
Dumb  on  his  knee  was  every  one 
'i'hat  now  is  bold  as  Caesar; — 
Mere  pegs  to  hang  an  office  on 
Such  stalwart  men  as  these  are  !" 

•  'Good  sir,"  I  said,  "you  seem  much  stirred, 

The  sacred  compromises" — 

"  Now  God  confound  that  dastard  word, 

My  gall  thereat  arises  ! 

Northward  it  has  this  sense  alone. 

That  yon,  your  conscience  blinding. 

Shall  bow  your  fool's  nose  to  the  stone, 

When  Slavery  feels  like  grinding. 

"  While  knaves  are  busy  with  their  charts 

For  new  man-markets  seeking. 

You  want  some  men  with  God-stirred  hearts 

And  good  at  downrii:ht  speaking. 

The  soul  that  utters  the  North  should  be 

Too  wide  for  self  to  span  it, 

As  chainless  as  her  wind-roused  sea, 

As  firm-based  as  her  granite. 

«'  'Tis  true  we  drove  the  Indians  out 
From  their  paternal  acres. 
Then  for  new  victims  cast  about, 
And  hung  a  score  of  Quakers  ; 
But,  if  on  others'  rights  we  trod, 
Our  own,  at  least,  we  guarded. 
And  with  the  shield  of  faith  in  God 
The  thrusts  of  danger  warded. 

"  0  shame,  to  see  such  painted  sticks 

In  Dane's  and  Winthrop's  places. 

To  see  your  <  Spirit  of  Seventy-six' 

Drag  humbly  in  the  traces. 

With  Slavery's  lash  upon  her  back, 

And  herds  of  office  holders 

To  shout  huzzas  when,  with  a  crack, 

It  peels  her  patient  shoulders  ! 

«'  We,  forefathers  to  such  a  rout  ? 

No,  by  my  faith  in  God's  word  !" 

Half  rose  the  ghost,  and  half  drew  out 

The  ghost  of  his  old  broad-sword  ; 

Then  thrust  it  slowly  back  again, 

And  said,  with  reverent  gesture, 

"  No,  Freedom,  no  !  blood  should  not  stain 

The  hem  of  thy  white  vesture. 

"  I  feel  the  soul  in  me  draw  near 
The  hill  of  prophesying ; 
In  this  bleak  wilderness  I  hear 
A  John  the  Baptist  crying; 
Far  in  the  East  I  see  upleap 
The  first  streaks  of  forewarning. 
And  they  who  sowed  the  light  shall  reap 
The  golden  sheaves  of  morning. 
34 


"  Child  of  our  travail  and  our  woe, 

Li;;ht  in  our  day  of  sorrow, 

Through  my  rapt  spirit  I  foreknow 

The  glory  of  thy  morrow ; 

r  hear  great  footsteps  through  the  shade 

Draw  nigher  still  and  nigher. 

And  voices  call  like  that  which  bade 

The  prophet  come  up  higher." 

I  looked,  no  form  my  eyes  could  find, 

[  heard  the  cock  just  crowing. 

And  through  the  window-cracks  the  wind 

A  dismal  tune  was  blowing  ; 

Thought  I,  my  neighbour  Buckingham 

Hath  somewhat  in  him  gritty, 

Some  Pilgrim  stuff  that  hates  all  sham, — 

Perchance  he'll  print  my  ditty. 


FROM  "DREAM    LOVE." 

How  slight  is  a  smile  or  a  kind  word  to  the  giver — 
how  much  it  may  be  to  the  receiver.  So  little  do  we 
know  of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  those  who  move 
about  us,  so  little  does  the  inward  and  hidden  world 
correspond  with  the  outward  and  apparent,  that  we 
cannot  calculate  our  influence,  and  when  we  think 
that  trivial  offices  of  kindness,  which  cost  us 
nothing,  may  make  flowers  to  spring  up  in  another's 
heart,  we  should  be  slow  to  refuse  them.  This  pas- 
sing jest  may  have  built  the  climax  to  an  argument, 
which  shall  turn  a  struggling  soul  from  out  the  path 
of  duty — that  word  of  encouragement  afforded  the 
prompting  impulse  which  shall  last  forever.  We 
cannot  help  the  bias  which  others  take  from  us.  No 
man  can  live  for  himself,  though  he  bury  himself  in 
the  most  eremitical  caverns.  We,  as  it  were,  are 
an  illimitable  and  subtly  entangled  chain  in  the  vast 
mechanism  of  Nature.  The  vibration  of  one  link 
sounds  along  the  whole  line. 

Life  is  after  all  just  what  we  choose  to  make 
it — and  no  man  is  so  poor  that  he  can  not  shape 
a  whole  world  for  himself  even  out  of  nothing. 
When  I  stand  under  the  trees  of  another,  and  see  the 
yellow  morning  gleaming  through  their  tall  shafts, 
and  broken  into  a  magnificent,  illuminated  oriel  by 
the  intervening  leaves  ;  when  I  look  down  the  for- 
est's sombre  aisles,  and  hear  the  solemn  groaning  of 
the  oaks,  wrestling  with  the  night  blast,  as  if  they 
struggled  in  prayer  against  an  evil  spirit — is  it  not 
my  world  that  I  behold,  do  I  not  own  the  sileni 
stars  that  seem  to  fly  through  the  clouds — and  is  not 
the  large  and  undulating  stretch  of  summer  land- 
scape mine,  which  my  moving  eye  beholds  ?  The 
power  of  enjoyment  is  the  only  true  ownership  that 
man  can  have  in  natu'-e,  and  the  landed  proprietor 
may  walk  landless  as  MacGrrgor,  though  the  world 


2GG 


VOICES    OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


may  call  him  the  wealthy  owner  of  a  thousand  acres. 
The  poorest  painter  that  ever  passes  his  estate  owns 
more  of  it  than  he  ;  the  little  school-girl  who  stops 
to  list  his  robin's  son^,  or  to  dabble  in  his  running 
brook,  or  to  chase  his  butterfly,  or  to  pluck  his  dan- 
delion, owns  more  of  all  his  land  than  he  ever  knew 
there  was  to  own.  I  do  not  covet  your  broad  wood- 
lands, they  are  mine  now— here  from  my  window, 
all,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  is  mine,. —  I  pay  no  taxes. 

Habit  steals  the  sweetness  out  of  our  pleasures. 
The  hard  drudgery  of  a  week's  work  makes  the 
silence  of  the  seventh  day  its  blessing.  To  the  city 
man  of  business,  the  few  free  hours  in  which  he  can 
smell  the  fresh  air  of  the  country,  are  by  far 
pleasanter  for  the  tedious  routine  of  his  common 
life.  Sleep  is  sweetened  by  labor.  'J'he  poor  stu- 
dent whose  hard  earned  dollar  was  pressed  out  of 
aching  needs  and  privations,  and  given  for  the  book 
he  coveted,  sweetens  his  life  and  soul  by  it — but  the 
rich  virtuoso  has  no  dark  vista  of  expectation  and 
desire,  to  heighten  the  charm  of  the  object  he  pur- 
chases. Never  was  play  so  good  as  in  the  quarter 
hour  at  recess,  hemmed  in  between  the  walls  of 
study.  Too  much  tasting  vitiates  the  palate.  We 
artists  live  the  best  lives.  We  are  like  children,  lured 
on  by  the  scent  of  flowers  in  a  green  and  pleasant 
meadow,  which,  though  they  are  seldom  found,  make 
the  seeking  a  delight.  Art  thus  entices  us  gently  on. 
The  mechanical  is  so  harmoniously  connected  with 
the  intellectual,  that  mind  and  body  are  both  satis- 
fied. We  smell  a  perfume  after  which  all  common 
things,  dusty  and  scentless  in  themselves,  seem 
vivified  and  transfigured.  The  old  barn-yard,  the 
gnarled  oak  and  the  stunted  willow,  and  every  sun- 
set and  sunrise,  and  all  the  clouds,  and  all  human 
faces,  become  full  of  interest  for  us.  They  are  no 
longer  t.ime  and  prosaic,  but  filled  with  an  ever- 
shifting  beauty.  Had  we  only  the  ideal,  we  should 
soon  give  up,  but  the  constant  contact  of  the  actual, 
from  which  our  problem  is  to  shape  out  the  ideal, 
gives  a  sincerity  and  truth  to  all  our  aspirations  and 
labors.  Our  brushes  and  paints  lie  between  the 
picture  and  our  harids,  and  between  the  conception 
and  its  embodiment  there  is  a  great  deal  of  actual 
work.  'J'hus  a  pleasant  vibration  is  constantly  kept 
up  between  the  spirit  and  the  sense.  Along  the 
pencil  runs  the  thought  to  bury  itself  in  the  can- 
vass, as  the  lightning  from  heaven  flashes  along  the 
iron  rod  to  scelc  the  earth.  We  are  kept  from  being 
too  visionary  by  a  constant  necessity  of  reducing  all 
our  feelings  and  emotions  and  ideas,  to  something 
actual  and  visible.  Thus  we  can  sit  and  realize  our 
ideal  world — and  is  not  this  the  greatest  joy  ? 

I  wandered  out  into  the  moonlight  to  be  alone.  I 
sat  down  upoji  a  rock  beside  the  water.  The  waves 
beat  gently  around  its  base,  and  the  gleaming  path 
of  flickering  light,  paved  with  myriads  of  sparkles, 
seemed  to  invite  me  to  walk  over  the  bosom  of  the 
sea  into  the  distant  horizon.     The  few  large  stars 


shone  steadily — and  the  rest  had  withdrawn  behind 
the  veil  of  the  moonlight  into  their  fathomless  blue 
chambers.  No  !  Science  is  not  opposed  to  Poetry, 
it  only  opens  a  wider  field.  When  I  think  that  each 
of  those  sparkling  points  that  I  see  above  me  sprinkled 
over  the  blue  shell  of  the  sky,  is  a  distant  world  that 
spins  aiorg  its  meted  course  forever,  and  that  its 
twinkling  is  but  the  incessant  obscuration  caused  by 
the  passage  of  invisible  atoms  across  its  disk  ;  when 
I  know  that  some  of  them  are  double,  and  of  com- 
plementary color,  though  they  seem  to  us  as  one,  do 
I  not  find  a  lofty  truth  therein,  which  is  full  of 
Poetry  ?  We  need  not  fear  that  science  shall  crowd 
poetry  out  of  nature,  by  depriving  it  of  mystery — 
for  ever  the  web  grows  more  complicate,  and  the 
secret  more  unfathomable.  Yet  the  imaginative 
may  well  fear,  for  it  is  our  stand  point,  that  enables 
us  to  find  poems  in  the  common  life  of  every  day. 
This  dry  muscle-shell  which  lies  beside  me,  will 
grow  translucent  and  veined  with  a  thousand  curi- 
ous hues  and  prismatic  lights,  as  soon  as  the  salt 
spray  touches  it.  And  so  when  the  commonest  fact 
of  nature  is  wet  from  the  fountain  of  inspiration,  it 
shows  its  thousand  radiant,  yet  hidden  beauties. 
Custom  and  convention  alone  kill  the  poetry  out  of 
nature.  Laws  of  society,  which  are  barren  forms, 
hang  lead  weights  upon  the  young  enthusiastip 
Apollo.  Every  youthful  heart,  which  in  its  first  flush 
of  hope  would  clasp  the  world  to  its  bosom,  finds  • 
that  it  clasps  a  cold  mailed  body — stuflled  with  a 
trite  commonplace,  instead  of  the  genial  glowing 
spirit  that  it  sought.  Enthusiasm  is  unfashionable — 
the  ideal,  a  bore — high  projects  are  foolish  transcen- 
dentalism— and  when  the  bewhipped  heart,  after  it 
has  run  its  gauntlet,  turns  and  asks,  what  is  true 
and  good  ?  "  Our  forms,"  says  the  world,  and  he 
consents  for  sake  of  peace. 

I  have  been  looking  out  of  my  window 

into  the  moon-light.  The  fresh  air  as  it  blew  in, 
fluttered  the  flame  of  my  candle,  which  stood  on  the 
mantel,  and  threatened  momentarily  to  extinguish  it. 
Being  in  a  superstitious  mood,  I  determined  not  to 
move  it,  but  to  try  my  fate  by  it.  If  it  were 
blown  out,  my  love  would  also  melt  away.  If  it 
resisted  the  wind  and  burned  on,  my  love  was  not  a 
foolish  fancy,  but  would  live  to  shed  light  and  baj)- 
piness  around  me.  I  have  watched  with  curiosity, 
for  some  time,  the  struggle  between  the  wind  and 
the  candle.  Now  it  seems  as  if  the  wind  would  get 
the  better,  for  the  flame  hangs  fluttering  around  the 
wick,  and  seems  barely  to  keep  its  hold.  And  now 
again  the  wind  flags,  and  the  flame  burns  brightly 
and  steadily.  So  it  is  with  me.  Love,  the  flame, 
now  burning  brightly,  and  now  threatened  with 
doubt  and  distrust.  How  universally  this  desire  of 
snatching  an  intimation  of  the  future  out  of  the  pass- 
ing facts  of  the  present,  possesses  the  mind  of  man. 
Do  we  not,  when  anxious  for  an  undetermined  result, 
endeavor  to  strengthen  our  belief  in  what  we  hope. 


VOICES   OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


267 


by  watching  the  chance  ending  of  trivial  facts  then 
pending,  and  attaching  an  encouraging  and  signifi- 
cant interpretation  to  one  of  the  two  issues.  Yes 
we  cannot  build  up  so  strong  a  wall  of  confidence, 
that  it  needs  no  prop  to  sustain  it.  And  we  are  will- 
ing but  too  often  that  chance  shall  decide,  when 
reason  and  judgment  are  wavering.  And  yet  our 
destiny  is  almost  the  creation  of  our  will — and  often 
when  a  peculiar  providence  seems  to  have  directed 
the  result,  and  to  have  aided  the  individual,  he  in 
fact  has  created  the  circumstances  and  fashioned  the 
event.  VA'hen  we  are  broken  down  in  hope,  and 
drowning,  we  grasp  at  straws.  If  a  chance  happen 
in  our  favor  it  gives  us  faith — and  belief  in  our  abi- 
lity is  the  touchstone  to  success.  When  we  have 
taken  counsel  in  moments  of  hesitation,  from  chance 
throws  of  dice,  from  fates  cut  in  a  book,  and  the  re- 
sult has  proved  fortunate  as  thereby  indicated,  is  it 
not  the  faith  which  the  chance  decision  has  inspired, 
that  decided  the  issue  ?  When  Robert  Bruce  lay  on 
his  pallet  watching  the  spider,  and  saw  him  make 
six  unsuccessful  attempts  to  fasten  its  web  to  a 
beam  above  his  head,  and  then  determined,  that  if 
the  insect  succeeded  in  his  seventh  attempt,  he  also, 
who  had  six  times  failed  in  his  efforts  for  the  free- 
dom of  his  country,  would  nmke  one  more  trial ;  was 
it  not  the  faith  which  the  final  success  of  the  inde- 
fatigable insect  inspired,  that  was  the  guaranty  of 
victory,  and  under  the  guidance  of  which,  defeat  and 
failure  were  next  to  impossible  ?  We  can  do,  what 
we  do  not  doubt  that  we  can  do.  All  great  minds 
have  a  settled  fearlessness  and  confidence,  which 
looks  like  inspiration.  Napoleon  conquered  and 
intimidated  all  Europe,  by  his  sublime  faith  in  him- 
self. After  marshalling  all  his  resources  and  omit- 
ting no  precaution  which  pointed  even  dimly  to  suc- 
cess, he  had  over  and  above  this,  a  fiery  faith,  which 
spread  like  wildfire  over  his  whole  army,  which 
conquered  the  most  fearful  odds,  and  which  strode 
over  and  crushed  all  doubt  to  the  earth.  No  army 
could  withstand  that  desperate  resolution,  which 
never  harbored  a  doubt  of  its  own  ability.  Without 
this  faith,  he  might  have  possessed  his  eagle  insight, 
his  quick  instinct,  his  rapid  combination,  hissubtle 
calculation  and  foresight,  still  never  have  grasped 
the  hydra  of  anarchy,  and  tamed  it  to  submission, 
even  while  its  fangs  were  dripping  with  gore,  nor 
have  waded  through  the  blood  of  Europe  to  an  impe- 
rial throne.  If  we  have  no  faith  in  ourselves,  who 
is  to  have  faith  in  us  ?  No  great  man  is  astonished 
at  his  own  success. 


For  dubious  meanings  learned  polemics  strove, 
And  words  on  faith  prevented  works  of  love. 

Cf..\ebe. 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  DEATH  BED. 

BY  cvRoLiNE  sorrniEY. 

Tread  softly — bow  the  head — 
In  reverent  silence  bow! 
No  passing  bell  doth  toll. 
Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger  !  how  great  soe'er, 
With  lowly  reverence  bow  ! 
There's  one  in  that  poor  shed, 
One  by  that  wretched  bed, 
Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 
Lo  !  Death  doth  keep  his  state  ; 
Enter — no  crowds  attend  ; 
Enter — no  guards  defend 
This  palace-gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  cold, 
No  whispering  courtiers  tread  ; 
One  silent  woman  stands. 
Lifting  with  pale  thin  hands 
A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound — 
An  infant  wail  alone  ; 
A  sob  suppressed — agen 
That  short,  deep  gasp— and  then 
The  parting  groan. 

O  change,  oh,  wondrous  change  I 
Burst  are  the  pri.son  bars  I 
This  moment  there,  so  low, 
So  agonized, — and  now 
Beyond  the  stars ! 

0  change !  stupendous  change  ! 
There  lies  the  senseless  clod  ; 
The  soul  from  bondage  breaks. 
The  new  immortal  wakes — 
Wakes  with  his  God. 


SONNET. 

BY     GEORGE    S.     BURLEIGH. 

I  thank  ye,  oh  ye  ever  noiseless  stars  I 

That  ye  do  move  so  silent,  in  your  high 
Eternal  marches  through  the  voiceless  sky. 
When  Earth's  loud  clamor  on  the  spirit  jars, 
— The  Captive's  groans,  the  victor's  loud  huzzas, 
And  the  worn  toilers'  deepening  hunger  cry, 
Then  from  your  height  ye  gaze  so  placidly. 
That  the  lovv  cares  whose  fretful  breathing  scars 
Life's  holy  deeps,  shrink  back  abashed  before 

The  love-sad  meekness  of  your  still  rebuke, 
And  the  calmed  soul  forgets  the  earth  storm's  roar 

In  the  dorp  tru^^t  of  your  majestic  look, 
Till  through  the  heart  by  warring  passions  torn. 
Some  pulse  of  your  serener  life  is  born. 


268 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  CHAINING. 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

I  do  not  come  to  weep  above  thy  pall, 

And  mourn  the  dying-out  of  noble  powers; 

The  poet's  clearer  eye  should  see,  in  all 

Earth's  seeming  woe,  the  seed  of  Heaven's  flowers. 

Truth  needs  no  champions :  in  the  infinite  deep 
Of  everlasting  f^oul  her  strcnj;tl»  abides, 

From  Nature's  heart  her  miglity  pulses  leap. 

Through   Nature's  veins    her  strength,  undying, 
tides. 

Peace  is  more  strong  than  war,  and  gentleness, 
Where  force  were  vain,  makes  conquests  o'er  the 
wave ; 

And  love  lives  on  and  hath  a  power  to  bless, 
When  they  who  loved  are  hidden  in  the  grave. 

The  sculptured  marble  brags  of  death-strewn  fields, 
And  Glory's  epitaph  is  writ  in  blood ; 

But  Alexander  now  to  Plato  yields, 

Clarkson  will  stand  where  Wellington  hath  stood. 

I  watch  the  circle  of  the  eternal  years, 

And  read  forever  in  the  storied  page 
One  lengthened  roll  of  blood,  and  wrong,  and  tears, — 

One  onward  step  of  Truth  from  age  to  age. 

The  poor  are  crushed  ;   the  tyrants  link  their  chain ; 

The  poet  sings  through  narrow  dungeon-grates ; 
Man's  hope  lies  quenched; — and,  lol  with  steadfast 
gain 

Freedom  doth  forge  her  mail  of  adverse  fates. 

Men  slay  the  prophets ;  fagot,  rack,  and  cross 
Make  up  the  groaning  record  of  the  past ; 

But  Evil's  triumphs  are  her  endless  loss. 
And  sovereign  Beauty  wins  the  soul  at  last. 

No  power  can  die  that  ever  wrought  for  Truth; 

'J'hereby  a  law  of  Nature  it  became, 
And  lives  unwithered  in  its  sinewy  youth. 

When  he  who  called  it  forth  is  but  a  name. 

Therefore  I  cannot  think  thee  wholly  gone. 
The  better  part  of  thee  is  with  us  still; 

Thy  soul  its  hampering  clay  aside  hath  thrown. 
And  only  freer  wrestles  with  the  111. 

Thou  livest  in  the  life  of  all  good  things  ; 

What  words  thou  spak'stfor  Freedom  shall  not  die; 
Thou  sleepest  not,  for  now  thy  1-ove  hath  wings 

To  soar  where  hence  thy  hope  could  hardly  lly. 

And  often,  from  that  other  world,  on  this 

Some  gleams  from  great   souls  gone  before  may 
shine. 

To  shed  on  struggling  hearts  a  clearer  bliss, 
And  clothe  the  Right  with  lustre  more  divine. 


Thou  art  not  idle  :  in  thy  higher  sphere 
Thy  spirit  bends  itself  to  loving  tasks, 

And  strength,  to  perfect  W'hat  it  dreamed  of  here. 
Is  all  the  crown  and  glory  that  it  asks. 

For  sure,  in  Heaven's  wide  chambers,  there  is  room 
For  love  and  pity,  and  for  helpful  deeds ; 

Else  were  our  summons  thither  but  a  doom 
To  life  more  vain  than  this  in  clayey  weeds. 

From  ofi  the  starry  mountain-peak  of  song, 
Thy  spirit  shows  me,  in  the  coming  time. 

An  earth  unwithered  by  the  foot  of  wrong, 
A  race  revering  its  own  soul  sublime. 

What  wars,   what  martyrdoms,   what  crimes,    may 
come. 

Thou  knowest  not,  nor  I ;  but  God  will  lead 
The  prodigal  soul  from  want  and  sorrow  home. 

And  Eden  ope  her  gates  to  Adam's  seed. 

Farewell !  good  man,  good  angel  now  !  this  hand 
Soon,  like  thine  own,  shall  lose  its  cunning,  too. 

Soon  shall  this  soul,  like  thine,  bewildered  stand. 
Then  leap  to  thread  the  free  unfathomed  blue  : 

When  that  day  comes,  O,  may  this  hand  grow  cold, 
Busy,  like  thine,  for  Freedom  and  the  Right ; 

0,  may  this  soul,  like  thine,  be  ever  bold 
To  face  dark  Slavery's  encroaching  blight  I 

This  laurel-leaf  I  cast  upon  thy  bier ; 

Let  worthier  hands  than  these  thy  wreath  entwine; 
Upon  thy  hearse  I  shed  no  useless  tear, — 

For  me  weep  rather  thou  in  calm  divine  ! 


ABOU    BEN    ADEEM. 

BY  LEIGU  IH'AT. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace. 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, — 
IMaking  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, — 
An  Angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
.\nd  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"  What  writest  thou?"     The  vision  raised  its  head, 
And,  in  a  voice  made  all  of  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord  !" 
"  And  is  mine  one  ?"  said  Abou.     "  Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  Angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low. 
But  cheerly  still,  and  said  :   "  I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  who  loves  his  fellow-men." 
'Jhe  Angel  wrote  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
He  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light. 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blest 
And  lo !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 


VOICES    OF   THE   TRUE- II  EAR  TED. 


2  09 


THE  WASTED  FLOWERS. 

On  the  velvet  bank  of  a  rivulet  sat  a  rosy  child. 
Her  lap  was  filled  with  flowers,  and  a  garland  of 
rose-buds  was  twined  around  her  neck.  Her  face 
was  as  radiant  as  the  sunshine  that  fell  upon  it ;  and 
her  voice  was  as  clear  as  that  of  the  bird  whieh  war- 
bled at  her  side. 

The  little  stream  went  singing  on,  and  with  every 
gush  of  its  music  the  child  lifted  a  flower  in  its  dim- 
pled hand,  and  with  a  merry  laugh  threw  it  upon  its 
surface.  In  her  glee  she  forgot  that  her  treasures 
were  growing  less,  and  with  the  swift  motion  of 
childhood,  he  flung  them  upon  the  sparkling  tide, 
until  every  bud  and  blossom  had  disappeared.  Then 
seeing  her  loss,  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  bursting 
into  tears,  called  aloud  to  the  stream — "Bring  back 
my  flowers."  But  the  stream  danced  along,  regard- 
less of  her  tears;  and  as  it  bore  the  blooming  burden 
away,  her  words  came  back  in  a  taunting  echo  along 
its  reedy  margin.  And,  long  after,  amidst  the  wail- 
ing of  the  breeze  and  the  fitful  bursts  of  childish 
grief,  was  heard  the  fruitless  cry, — "  Bring  back 
my  flowers.'' 

Merry  maiden  !  who  art  idly  wasting  the  precious 
moments  so  bountifully  bestowed  on  thee — see  in 
the  thoughtless  impulsive  child,  an  emblem  of  thy. 
self.  Each  moment  is  a  perfumed  flower.  Let  its 
fragrance  be  dispensed  in  blessings  on  all  around 
thee,  and  ascend  as  sweet  incense  to  its  beneficent 
Giver. 

Else,  when  thou  hast  carelessly  flung  them  from 
thee,  and  seestthem  receding  on  the  swift  waters  of 
Time,  thou  wilt  cry  in  tones  more  sorrowful  than 
those  of  the  weeping  child — "  Bring  back  my  flow- 
ers." And  the  only  answer  will  be  an  echo  from 
the  shadowy  past — "Bring back  my  flowers." 

The  Lowell  Offering. 


EPITOME  OF  WAR. 

BY   "THE    ETTRICK    SHEPHERD." 

The  history  of  every  war  is  very  like  a  scene  I 
once  saw  in  Nithsdale.  Two  boys  from  different 
schools  met  one  fine  day  upon  the  ice. — They  eyed 
each  other  awhile  in  silence,  with  rather  jealous  and 
indignant  looks,  and  with  defiance  on  each  brow. 

<  What  are  ye  glowrin'  at,  Billy  ?' 

'  What's  that  to  you,  Donald  ?  I'll  look  whar 
I've  a  mind,  an'  hinder  me  if  you  daur.' 

To  this  a  hearty  blow  was  the  return ;  and  then 
began  such  a  battle !  It  being  Saturday,  all  the  boys 
of  both  schools  were  on  the  ice,  and  the  fight  in- 
stantly became  general.  At  first  they  fought  at  a 
distance,  with  missile  weapons,  such  as  stones  and 


snow-balls ;  but  at  length,  coming  hand  to  hand, 
they  coped  in  a  rage,  and  many  bloody  raps  were 
liberally  given  and  received. 

I  went  up  to  try  if  I  could  pacify  them  ;  for  by 
this  time  a  number  of  little  girls  had  joined  the  af- 
fray, and  I  was  afraid  they  would  be  killed.  So,  ad- 
dressing one  party,  I  asked,  <  What  are  you  fighting 
those  boys  for  ?     What  have  they  done  to  you  ?' 

'0,  naething  at  a',  maun;  we  just  want  to  gie 
them  a  gude  thrashin' — that's  a'.' 

My  remonstrance  was  vain  ;  at  it  they  went 
afresh ;  and  after  fighting  till  they  were  quite  ex- 
hausted, one  of  the  principal  heroes  stepped  forth 
between  the  combatants,  himself  covered  with  blood 
and  his  clothes  all  torn  to  tatters,  and  addressed  the 
opposing  party  thus  : — <  Weel,  I'll  tell  you  what 
we'll  do  wi'  ye — if  ye'll  let  us  alane,  we'll  let  you 
alane.'  There  was  no  more  of  it ;  the  war  was 
at  an  end,  and  the  boys  scampered  away  to  their 
play. 

That  scene  was  a  lesson  of  wisdom  to  me.  I 
thought  at  the  time,  and  have  often  thought  since, 
that  this  trivial  affray  was  the  best  epitome  of  war 
in  general,  that  I  had  ever  seen.  Kings  and  minis- 
ters of  state  are  just  a  set  of  grown-up  children, 
exactly  like  the  children  I  speak  of,  with  only  this 
material  difference,  that  instead  of  fighting  out  for 
themselves  the  needless  quarrels  they  have  raised, 
they  sit  in  safety  and  look  on,  hound  out  their  inno- 
cent but  servile  subjects  to  battle,  and  then,  after  an 
immense  waste  of  blood  and  treasure,  are  glad  to 
make  the  boys'  condition — '  if  ye'll  let  us  alane, 
we'll  let  you  alane.' 


THE  FREE  MIND. 

BY    WILLIAM   LLOYD    GARRISON. 

Written  by  him  while  despotically  imprisoned  in  Balti- 
more, in  1831,  on  a  charge  for  libel  ;  he  having  pubhshed 
an  article  aguinst  a  New  England  merchant  by  the  name 
of  Todd,  who  freighted  a  vessel  with  slaves  iut  the  JMew 
Orleans  market. 

High  walls  and  huge  the  hody  may  confine. 

And  iron  grates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 
And  massive  bolts  may  baflle  his  design. 

And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways  : 
Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control ! 

No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  enclose  : 
Swifter  than  light,  it  flies  from  pole, 

And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes  ! 
It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount ;  from  vale  to  vale 

It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  and  flowers; 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  fire-side  tale. 

Or,  in  sweet  converse,  pass  the  joyous  hours. 
'Tis  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar. 
And,  in  its  watches,  wearies  every  star  ! 


270 


VOICES   OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED, 


THE    REVELLERS. 

BY    WILtlAM  D.  GALLAGHER. 

There  were  sounds  of  miith  and  revelry, 

In  an  old  ancestral  hall, 

And  many  a  merrv  laugh  rang  out. 

And  many  a  merry  call ; 

And  the  glass  was  freely  pass'd  around, 

And  the  red  wine  freely  quafTd; 

And  many  a  heart  beat  high  with  glee, 

And  the  joy  of  the  thrilling  draught — 

In  that  broad  and  huge  ancestral  hall. 

Of  the  times  that  were,  of  old. 

A  voice  arose  as  the  lights  grew  dim. 

And  a  glass  was  nourished  high, 

•  '  I  drink  to  Life  !"  said  a  Reveller  bold, 

«'  And  I  do  not  fear  to  die. 

I  have  no  fear — I  have  no  fear — 

Talk  not  of  the  vagrant,  Death; 

For  he's  but  a  grim  old  gentleman, 

And  wars  but  with  his  breath." 

A  boast  well  worthy  a  revel  rout 

Of  the  times  that  were,  of  old. 

<(  We  drink,"  said  all,  "  We  drink  to  life, 

And  we  do  not  fear  to  die  !" 

Just  then  a  rushing  sound  was  heard, 

As  of  quick  wings  sweeping  by; 

And  soon  the  old  latcli  was  lifted  up, 

And  the  door  flew  open  wide. 

And  a  stranger  strode  within  the  hall, 

With  an  air  of  martial  pride  ; 

In  visor  and  cloak,  like  a  secret  knight 

Of  the  limes  that  were,  of  old. 

He  spoke  :  "  I  join  in  your  revelry, 

Bold  sons  of  the  Bacchan  rite. 

And  I  drink  the  toast  ye  have  fill'd  to  drink. 

The  pledge  of  yon  dauntless  knight ; 

Fill  higher — Fill  higher— we  drink  to  life. 

And  we  scorn  the  vagrant.  Death, 

For  he's  but  a  grim  old  gentleman. 

And  wars  but  with  his  breath." 

A  pledge  well  worthy  a  revel  rout 

Of  the  times  that  were,  of  old. 

<<He'sa  noble  soul,  that  champion  knight, 

And  he  wears  a  martial  brow  ; 

Oh,  he'll  pass  the  gates  of  Paradise, 

To  the  regions  of  bliss  below  I" 

The  Reveller  stood  in  deep  amaze — 

Now  flash'd  his  fiery  eye; 

He  muttered  a  curse — then  shouted  loud, 

"  Intruder,  thou  shall  die  !" 

And  his  sword  leap'd  out,  likea  Baron's  brave 

Of  the  times  that  weie,  of  old. 


He  struck— and  the  stranger's  guise  fell  off, 

When  a  phantom  before  him  stood, 

A  grinning,  and  ghastly,  and  horrible  thing, 

'J'hat  curdled  his  boiling  blood. 

He  stirred  not  again,  till  the  stranger  blew 

A  blast  of  his  withering  breath  ; 

Then  the  Reveller  fell  at  the  Phantom's  feet. 

And  his  conqueror  was — Death  ! 

In  that  broad  and  high  ancestral  hall, 
Of  the  times  that  were,  of  old. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

BY  WILLIAM    CCLLEN   BRYAST. 

Whither,  'midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong. 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky. 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side. 

There  is  a  Power,  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere  ; 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  laud, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend 

Soon  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone  ;  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He,  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
fJuiiles  tiirough  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight. 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


271 


THE    FAREWELL 

Of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mo/Iier   to  her  Daughters,  sold 
into  Southern  Bondage. 

BY    JOIIX    G.    WIIITTIEK.. 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 

Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 

Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 

Where  the  Fever  Demon  strews 

Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 

Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 

Through  the  hot  and  misty  air, — 
Gone,  gone, — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone— sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them  ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone— sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me  my  stolen  daughters! 

Gone,  gone— sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Oh,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go. 
Faint  with  toil,  and  rack'dwith  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again — 
There  no  brother's  voice  shall    greet  theni — 
There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone— sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice- swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  | 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play— 
From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank— 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer. 
And  the  holy  comisels  there- 
Gone,  gone— sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone — 
Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 
And  at  night  the  Spoiler's  prey. 
Oh,  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
Sleeping  calmly  side  by  side, 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more ! 
Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice  swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daiigliters  ! 

Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone — 
By  the  holy  love  He  bearcth — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth— 
Oh,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove. 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER. 

BY    CAROLINE    E.    S.    IVORTON. 

We  have  been  friends  together. 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade, 
Since  first  beneath  the  chesnut  trees 

In  infancy,  we  played  ; — 
But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart, 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow: 
We  have  been  friends  together — 

Shall  a  light  word  par t  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  gay  together ; — 

We  have  laughed  at  little  jests 
When  the  fount  of  love  was  gushing 

Warm  and  joyous  in  our  breasts  ; — 
But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lips, 

And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow  : 
We  have  been  gay  together — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now? 

We  have  been  sad  together  ; 

We  have  wept  with  bitter  tears 
O'er  the  grass  grown  graves,  where  slumbered 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 
The  voices  which  are  silent  there 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow, — 
We  have  been  sad  together — 

Oh,  what  shall  part  us  now? 


272 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR. 

BY    JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 

Jfary  G — ,  aged  18,  a  "  Sister  of  Charity,"  died 
in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities,  during  the  prevalence 
of  the  Indian  Cholera,  while  in  voluntary  attendance 
upon  the  sick. 

«'  Bring  out  yonr  dead  !"  the  midnight  street 
Heard  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  low  call  ; 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet — 

Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse  white  sheet — 
Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"  What — only  one  !"  The  brutal  hackman  said, 

As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurn'd  away  the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 

As  roird  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 
With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof-fall ! 
The  dying  turn'd  him  to  the  wall, 

To  hear  it  and  to  die  ! — 
Onward  it  roll'd  ;  while  oft  its  driver  stay'd, 
And  hoarsely  clamor'd,  "  Ho ! — bring  out  your  dead." 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place  ; 

"  Toss  in  your  load !" — and  it  was  done. — 
With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 
Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 

They  cast  them,  one  by  one — 
Stranger  and  friend — the  evil  and  the  just, 
Together  trodden  in  the  church-yard  dust  ! 

And  thou,  young  martyr  ! — thou  wast  there — 

No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee  trod — 
Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God  ; 
Nor  flower;  nor  cross,  nor  hallow'd  taper  gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the  grave  ! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer! — there  shall  be, 

In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels,  keeping 
Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of  sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 
Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled  well, 

Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 

Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night, 
Far  more  than  words  may  tell  : 

Gentle,  and  nieek,  and  lowly,  and  unknown — 

Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God  alone  ! 


And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  confined, 

Hush'd  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread — 

A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 
Of  suffering  human-kind  ! 

Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 

To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven  ! 
How  turn'd  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 
In  mute  and  awful  sympathy. 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given; 
And  the  o'er-hovering  Spoiler  wore,  the  while, 
An  angel's  features — a  deliverer's  smile  ! 

A  blessed  task  ! — and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Ere  being's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  seal'd  her  early  vow — 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure  aflfections  and  her  guileless  truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing  here 
Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward  ; 

Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear — 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 
Of  living  mortal  heard, — 

The  joys  prepared — the  promised  bliss  above — 

The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love  ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 
A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought. 
The  fire  of  poesy — 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  honors  ; — thine 

Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

Yea — and,  when  thrones  shall  crumble  down, 
And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall, — 

The  herald's  line  of  long  renown — 

The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown — 
Perishing  glories  all  I 

The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 

Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was  a  part ! 


Where  manly  hearts  were  failing,— where 
The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with  death, 

O  high  soul'd  martyr  ! — thou  wast  there, 

Inhaling  from  the  loathsome  air, 
Poison  with  every  breath. 

Yet  shrinking  not  from  oflices  of  dread 

For  the  wrung  dying,  and  unconscious  dead. 


We  live  in  deeds,  not  years ;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths ; 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial. 
We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.  He  most  lives 
Who  thinks  most — feels  the  noblest — acts  the  best ; 
And  he  whose  heart  beats  quickest,  lives  the  longest; 
Lives  in  one  hour  morV;  than  in  years  do  some. 
Whose  blood  sleeps  as  it  slips  along  their  veins. 

P.  .1.  Bailey. 


VOICES  or  THE  THUE-HEARTER 


POEMS  ON  SOME  INCIDENTS  OF  ANTI-SLAVERY. 


Was  it  right, 
While  mj  unnumbered  brethren  toiled  and  bled, 
That  I  should  dream  away  the  entrusted  hours 
On  rose- leaf  beds,  pampering  the  coward  heart, 
With  feelings  all  too  delicate  for  use  ? 

Coleridge. 


The  general  history  of  any  one  radical  reform  is 
the  history  of  all.  There  is,  at  first,  the  deep  con- 
viction of  right,  and  devotedness  to  the  truth  what- 
ever betide,  opposed  by  the  scorn, loathing, and  hatred 
of  the  mass.  Then  comes  open  violence  beating 
down,  if  possible,  the  firm  endurance  of  men  who 
have  foreseen  the  peril  and  do  not  fear  to  brave  it. 
Then  is  heard  above  the  clamor  the  voices  of  some 
few  whom  the  world  calls  noble,  who  yet  by  the 
world's  love  are  not  altogether  corrupt.  And  then 
peal  upon  peal  arise  the  shouts  of  victory  after  vic- 
tory by  those  who,  once  dispised,  are  now  going  on 
conquering  and  to  conquer.  Then  high  names  are 
given  to  martyrs;  and  men  believing  them  to  be 
God-sent,  and  therefore  inimitable,  sit  down  with 
folded  arms  while  the  roar,  it  may  be,  of  a  yet 
mightier  combat  is  raging  around  them. 

Such  was  the  case  when  Socrates  drank  the  hem- 
lock ;  when  Jesus  was  the  Word-made-flesh,  and  was 
nailed  to  the  cross  ;  when  Luther  rocked  Catholic- 
dom  with  its  array  of  soulless  mummeries  and  count- 
less heresies,  to  its  foundation;  when  George  Fox 
shook  priestdom  in  England  sorely  ;  and  when  Sharpe 
and  Wilberforce  and  Clarkson  pleaded  for  the  rights 
against  the  powers  of  men,  and  gave  to  the  world  a 
most  noble  proof  of  Truth's  might.  And  such  too,  is 
now  the  case  when  Anti-Slavery — that  only  demo- 
cracy which  our  nation  has — defying  the  triple  alli- 
ance of  Love  of  Power  with  Love  of  Gold  and 
Hatred  of  Man,  has  kept  to  the  breeze  its  banner 
these  more  than  twenty  years,  bearing  it  up  and 
down  through  church  aisles  and  legislative  halls, 
flapping  it  in  the  faces  of  drowsy  wealth  and  rank, 
and,  from  beneath  it,  pouring  out  defiance  and  re- 
solve upon  the  startled  ear  of  oppression. 

In  that  warfare  have  been  many  incidents  right 
worthy  of  the  poet's  song.  And  well  have  some  of 
them  been  used.  I  have  hastily  thrown  together 
such  poems  upon  them  as  are  at  hand,  with  this 
eulogium — that  never  in  any  struggle  did  more  Man- 
ly and  Christian  poetry  gush  up  from  the  deep  foun- 
tains of  the  soul. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  B.  STORRS 

Late  President  of  Western  Reserve  College. 

B1  JOHN   G.   WIUTTIER. 

"  He  fell  a  martyr  to  the  interests  of  his  colored  brethren 
For  many  months  did  that  mighty  man  of  God  apply  his  dis- 
criminating and  gigantic  mind  to  the  subject  of  Slavery  and 
its  remedy  :  and,  when  his  soul  could  no  longer  contain  his 
holy  indignation  against  the  upholders  and  apologists  of  this 
unrighteous  system,  he  gave  vent  to  his  aching  heart,  and 
poured  forth  his  clear  thoughts  and  holy  feelings  in  such  deep 
and  soul-entrancing  eloquence,  that  other  men,  whom  he 
would  fain  in  his  humble  modesty  acknowledge  his  superiors, 
sat  at  his  feet  and  looked  up  as  children  to  a  parent." — Cor- 
respondent  of  the  '  Liberator,'  I6th  of  11th  mo.  1833. 

Thou  hast  fallen  in  thine  armor, 

Thou  martyr  of  the  Lord  I 
With  thy  last  breath  crying — <<  Onward  !" 

And  thy  hand  upon  the  sword. 
The  haughty  heart  derideth, 

And  the  sinful  lip  reviles, 
But  the  blessing  of  the  perishing 

Around  thy  pillow  smiles  ! 

when  to  our  cup  of  trembling 

The  added  drop  is  given. 
And  the  long  suspended  thunder 

Falls  terribly  from  Heaven, — 
When  a  new  and  fearful  freedom 

Is  proffer'd  of  the  Lord 
To  the  slow  consuming  Famine — 

The  Pestilence  and  Sword  ! — 

When  the  refuges  of  Falsehood 

Shall  be  swept  away  in  wrath, 
And  the  temple  shall  be  shaken 

With  its  idol  to  the  earth, — 
Shall  not  thy  words  of  warning 

Be  all  remember'd  then  ?  ^ 

A  lid  thy  now  unheeded  message 

Burn  in  fhe  hearts  of  men? 

Oppression's  hand  may  scatter 

Its  nettles  on  thy  tomb, 
And  even  Christian  bosoms 

Deny  thy  memory  room  ; 
35 


274 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


For  lying  lips  shall  torture 

Thy  mercy  into  crime, 
Ami  the  slanderer  shall  flourish 

As  the  bay-tree  for  a  time. 

But,  where  the  South-wind  lingers 

On  Carolina's  pines, 
Or,  falls  the  careless  sunbeam 

Down  Georgia's  golden  mines, — 
Where  now  beneath  kis  burthen 

The  toiling  slave  is  driven, — 
Where  now  a  tyrant's  mockery 

Is  offer'd  unto  Heaven,— 

Where  ]\Iammon  hath  its  alters 

Wet  o'er  with  human  blood, 
And  Pride  and  Lust  debases 

The  workmanship  of  God — 
There  shall  thy  praise  be  spoken, 

Redeem'd  from  Falsehood's  ban. 
When  the  fetters  shall  be  broken, 

And  the  slave  shall  be  a  man  .' 

Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

A  thousand  hearts  are  warm — 
A  thousand  kindred  bosoms 

Are  baring  to  the  storm. 
What  though  red-handed  Violence 

With  secret  Fraud  combine, 
The  wall  of  fire  is  round  us — 

Our  Present  Help  was  thine  ! 

Lo— the  waking  up  of  nations. 

From  Slavery's  fatal  sleep — 
The  murmur  of  a  Universe — 

Deep  calling  unto  Deep! 
Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

On  every  wind  of  Heaven 
The  onward  cheer  and  summons 

Of  Fp;eedom's  soul  is  given  ! 

Glory  to  God  for  ever  ! 

Beyond  the  despot's  will 
The  soul  of  Freedom  liveth 

Imperishable  still. 
The  words  which  thou  hast  utter  d 

Are  of  that  soul  a  part 
And  the  good  seed  thou  hast  scatter'd 

Is  springing  from  the  heart. 

In  the  evil  days  before  us, 

And  the  trials  yet  to  come- 
In  the  shadow  of  the  prison, 

Or  the  cruel  martyrdom  — 
We  will  think  of  thee,  O  brother! 

And  thy  sainted  name  shall  be 
In  the  blessing  of  the  captive, 

.And  the  anthem  of  the  free. 


SONG  OF  THE  FREE. 

BY  JOUN  G.  WHITTIER. 

•'Living,  1  shall  assert  the  right  of  Feee  Discussion; 
dying,  I  shall  assert  it  ;  and,  should  I  leave  no  other  inheri- 
tance to  my  children,  bv  the  blessing  of  God  I  will  leave  them 
the  inheritance  of  feee  pnI^•clI>LES,  and  the  example  of  a 
manly  and  independent  defence  of  Ibem.'"— Do»i(>/  It'ebster. 

Pride  of  New  England  1 

Soul  of  our  fathers  ! 
Shrink  we  all  cravan-like, 

When  the  storm  gathers  ? 
What  though  the  tempest  be 

Over  us  lowering, 
Where's  the  New  Englander 

Shamefully  cowering? 
Graves  green  and  holy 

Around  us  are  lying, — 
Free  were  the  sleepers  all. 

Living  and  dying  I 

Back  with  the  Southerner's 

Padlocks  and  scourges ! 
Go— let  him  fetter  down 

Ocean's  free  surges  ! 
Go — let  him  silence 

Winds,  clouds,  and  waters— 
Never  New  England's  own 

Free  sons  and  daughters  ! 
Free  as  our  rivers  are 

Ocean-ward  going — 
Free  as  the  breezes  are 

Over  us  blowing. 


Up  to  our  altars,  then, 

Haste  we,  and  summon 
Courage  and  loveliness, 

Manhood  and  woman'. 
Deep  let  our  pledges  be: 

Freedom  for  ever  ! 
Truce  with  Oppression, 

Never,  oh  !  never ! 
By  our  own  birthright-gift, 

Granted  of  Heaven — 
Freedom  for  heart  and  lip, 

Be  the  pledge  given  ! 

If  we  have  whisper'd  truth, 

Whisper  no  longer  ; 
Speak  as  the  tempest  does, 

Sterner  and  stronsier  ; 
Still  be  the  tones  of  truth 

Louder  and  firmer. 
Startling  the  haughty  South 

With  the  deep  murmur  ; 
God  and  our  charter's  right. 

Freedom  for  ever  ! 
Truce  with  Ojipression, 

Never,  oh!  never! 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


27r, 


CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS. 

BY  JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 

In  the  Report  of  the  celebrated  pro- slavery  meolinn  in 
Charleston,  S.  C. ,  on  the  -Ith  of  the  9th  month,  IBSS.  published 
in  the  Courier  of  that  city,  it  is  stated,  "  The  CLERGY  of  all 
denominations  attended  in  a  liody,  lending  their  sanction  to 
THK  PROCEEDINGS,  and  adding  by  their  presence  to  the  impres- 
sive character  of  the  scene!" 

Just  God ! — and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  Thine  altar,  God  of  Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  blessing  lay 

On  Israel's  Ark  of  light ! 

What !  preach  and  kidnap  men  ? 
Give  thanks — and  rob  Thy  own  afflicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  Thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  1 

What  I  servants  of  Thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The  homeless  and  the  outcast, — fettering  down 

The  task'd  and  plunder'd  slave  ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends  ! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine! 
Just  God  and  holy!   is  that  church  which  lends 

Strength  to  the  spoiler,  Thine  ? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search  and  burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke. 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed! 
And,  in  your  tassel'd  pulpits,  thank  the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman's  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  p  Lord !  how  long 
Shall  such  a  Priesthood  barter  truth  away, 
And,  in  Thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  Thy  own  altars  pray? 

Is  not  thy  hand  stretch'd  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite  ? 
Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  Common  Father  down  ! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  th'  immortal  mind 

Its  bright  and  glorious  crown ! 

Woe  to  the  Priesthood  !  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of  blood — 
Perverting,  darkening,  changing  as  they  go. 

The  searching  truths  of  God! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish;  and  their  very  na;r,es  shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  A  world's  liberty. 

Oh!  speed  the  moment  on 
When  Wrong  shall  cease — and  Liberty,  and  Love, 
And  Truth,  and  Right,  throughout  the  earth  be  known 

As  in  their  iiome  above. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY. 

President  of  the  Pennsylvania  Abolition  Society,  who  died 
on  the  17th   of  the  9th  month,  1830,  a  devoted   Christian  and 

Pliilanlhrupist. 

BY    JOHN    G.   WHITTIER. 

Gone  to  thy  Heavenly  Father's  rest ! 

The  flowers  of  Eden  round  thee  blowing, 
And  on  thine  ear  the  murmurs  blest 

Of  Shiloah's  waters  softly  flowing  ! 
Beneath  that  Tree  of  Life  which  gives 
To  all  the  earth  its  healing  leaves  I 
In  the  white  robe  of  angels  clad  ! 

And  wandering  by  that  sacred  river. 
Whose  streams  of  holiness  make  glad 

The  city  of  our  God  for  ever  ! 

Gentlest  of  spirits  ! — not  for  thee 

Our  tears  are  shed — our  sighs  are  given  : 
Why  mourn  to  know  thou  art  a  free 

Partaker  of  the  joys  of  Heaven  ? 
Finish'd  thy  work,  and  kept  thy  faith 
In  Christian  firmness  unto  death  ; 
And  beautiful  as  sky  and  earth. 

When  Autumn's  sun  is  downward  going, 
The  blessed  memory  of  thy  worth 

Around  thy  place  of  slumber  glowing  I 

But  woe  for  us!  who  linger  still 

With  feebler  strength  and  hearts  less  lowly. 
And  minds  less  steadfast  to  the  will 

Of  Him  whose  every  work  is  holy. 
For  not  like  thine,  is  crucified 
The  spirit  of  our  human  pride  ; 
And  at  the  bondman's  tale  of  woe, 

And  for  the  outcast  and  forsaken, 
Not  warm  like  thine,  but  cold  and  slow. 

Our  weaker  sympathies  awaken. 

Darkly  upon  our  struggling  way 

The  storm  of  human  hate  is  sweeping ; 
Hunted  and  branded,  and  a  prey. 

Our  watch  amidst  the  darkness  keeping ! 
Oh!  for  that  hidden  strength  which  can 
Nerve  unto  death  the  inner  man  I 
Oh !  for  thy  spirit,  tried  and  true, 

And  constant  in  the  hour  of  trial. 
Prepared  to  sufl^er,  or  to  do, 

In  meekness  and  in  self-denial. 

Oh  !  for  that  spirit,  meek  and  mild, 

Derided,  spurned,  yet  uncomplaining — 
By  man  deserted  and  reviled. 

Yet  faithful  to  its  trust  remaining. 
Still  prompt  and  resolute  to  save 
From  scourge  and  chain  the  hunted  slave  ' 
Unwavering  in  the  Truth's  defence, 

Even  where  the  fires  of  Hate  are  burning, 
Th'  unqnailing  eye  of  innocence 

Alone  upon  th'  oppressor  turning  ! 


276 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


O  loved  of  thousands  I   to  thy  grave, 

Sorrowing  of  heart,  thy  brethren  bore  thee  I 
The  poor  man  and  the  rescued  slave 

Wept  as  the  broken  earth  closed  o'er  thee — 
And  grateful  tears,  like  summer  rain, 
Quicken'd  its  dying  grass  again  ! 
And  there,  as  to  some  pilgrim-shrine, 

Shall  come  the  outcast  and  the  lowly, 
Of  gentle  deeds  and  words  of  thine 

Recalling  memories  sweet  and  holy! 

Oh!  for  the  death  the  righteous  die, 

An  end,  like  Autumn's  day  declining, 
On  human  hearts,  as  on  the  sky. 

With  holier,  tenderer  beauty  shining; 
As  to  the  parting  soul  were  given 
The  radiance  of  an  opening  Heaven  I 
As  if  that  pure  and  blessed  light, 

From  off  th'  Eternal  altar  flowing, 
Were  bathing,  in  its  upward  flight, 

The  spirit  to  its  worship  going ! 


LINES. 

Written  on  the  adoption  of  Pinckney's  ResolutionR,  in  the 
House  of  Representativee,  and  the  passage  of  Calhoun'6 
"  Bill  of  Abominations  "  to  a  second  reading,  in  the  Senate 
of  the  United  States. 

BY    JOHN'    G.    WHITTIER. 

Now,  by  our  fathers'  ashes  I  where's  the  spirit 

Of  the  true-hearted  and  the  unshackled  gone  ? 
Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 

Their  names  alone  ? 

Is  the  old  Pilgrim  spirit  quench'd  within  us  ? 

Stoops  the  proud  manhood  of  our  souls  so  low. 
That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile  can  win  us 
To  silence  now? 

No.     When  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is  verging, 

In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while  there  is  time  ! 
Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips  are  forging, 
Silence  is  crime  ! 

What !  shall  we  henceforth  humbly  ask  as  favors 

Rights  all  our  own  '    In  madness  shall  we  barter, 
For  treacherous  peacC;  the  freedom  Nature  gave  us, 
God  and  our  charter? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  seek  the  free  to  fetter  ? 
Here  Lynch  law  light  its  horrid  fires  on  high  1 
And,  in  the  church,  their    proud  and  skill'd  abettor, 
Make  truth  a  lie  ' 


Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallow'd  Bible, 

To  sanction  crime,  and  robbery,  and  blood  ? 
And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service,  libel 

Both  man  and  God  ' 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect  no  longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  downward  way. 
Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and  stronger 
Day  after  day  ? 

Oh,  no  ;  methinks  from  all  her  wild,  green  moun- 
tains— 
From  valleys  where  her  slumbering  fathers  lie — 
From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling  fountains. 

And  clear,  cold  sky — 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which  hungry  Ocean 

Gnaws  with  his  surges — from  the  fisher'  skiff, 
With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billows'  motion 

Round  rock  and  cliff — 

From  the  free  fire-side  of  her  unbought  farmer — 
From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and  wheel — 
From   the    brown   smith-shop,  where,   beneath    the 
hammer. 

Rings  the  red  steel — 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not  forsaken 

Our  land,  and  left  us  to  an  evil  choice, 
Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall  waken 

A  people's  voice. 

Startling  and  stern  !  the  Northern  winds  shall  bear  it 

Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave; 
And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to  hear  it 

Within  her  grave. 

Oh,  let  that  voice  go  forth!  The  bondman  sighing 

By  Santee's  wave,  in  Mississippi's  cane. 
Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom  dying. 
Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth  .'  The  millions  who  are  gazing 

Sadly  upon  us  from  a4'ar,  shall  smile. 
And  unto  God  devout  thanksgiving  raising. 

Bless  us  the  while. 

Oil,  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and  holy, 

For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning  earth, 
For  the  wrong'd  captive.,  bleeding,  crush'd  and  lowly, 

Let  it  go  forth  ! 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers  !  will  ye  falter 

With  all  they  left  ye  peril'd  and  at  stake? 
Ho  !  once  again  on  Freedom's  holy  altar 

The  fire  awake ! 

Prayer-strengthen'd  for  the  trial,  come  together, 

Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral  fight, 
And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  heavenly  Father. 

Maintain  THE  nifiiiT' 


VOICES    OF     THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


277 


THE  VOICE  OF  BLOOD. 

BY    J.    BLANCHARD. 

Elijah  Parrish  Lovejoy  was  shot  down  by  a  mob  at  Alton 
Illinois,  iith  mo.  Tth,  183T,  for  exercising  in  his  paper  his 
right  of  free  speech  with  regard  to  American  Slavery. 

7'to  the  voice  of  blood  !  and  I  wall  along 

As  the  winds  sweep  sullenly  by  ; 
All  choked  and  still  is  its  wonted  song, 
As  soft,  or  solemn,  or  brisk,  or  strong, 

It  Sling  to  the  answering  sky. 
One  breath,  one  shuddering  breath — a  moan 
Like  the  flap  of  a  pall  on  a  coffin  of  stone, 

Or  a  dead  man's  long  last  sigh! 

It  comes  to  thee,  Alton,  by  day  or  by  night, 

Where  Freedom's  champion  stood  ; 
And  the  child,  when  he  hears  it,  shall  cry  for  light. 
Though  the  sun  is  high,  and  the  day  is  bright ; 

And  the  mother,  in  frantic  mood. 
Shall  shriek  as  it  mutters,  the  cradle  near. 
In  a  whisper  so  loud  that  the  dead  might  hear, 
"  I  AM  BLOOD  ! — The  voice  of  blood!" 

In  street,  lane,  and  alley,  in  parlor  and  hall, 

That  sepulchre  voice  is  there 
Crying — "  'Hear,  hear  the  martyr's  imploringcall ! 

0  God!  see  the  blood  ! — how  it  follows  the  ball, 
As  he  sinks  like  the  song  of  despair  ; 

But  I  come — the  precursor  of  sorrow,  I  come 
In  church-aisle  and  dwelling,  in  cellar  and  dome. 
To  cry  with  the  tongue  of  the  air  ; — 

«'  <0  could  ye  not  hear  when  the  young  mother  plead 

For  the  babe  starting  wild  by  her  side  ? — 
Must  her  husband's  cold  bosom  then  pillow  her  head, 
And  her  warm  kiss,  impressed  on  the  lips  of  the 
dead. 
Excite  no  emotion  but  pride  ! 

1  tell  thee,  Proud  City,  the  vengeance  of  God, 
Shall  be  felt,  if  not  feared,  on  thy  Golgotha  sod, 

Where  the  Martyr  of  Liberty  died.'  " 

Wake,   wake,  Illinois  !    for  through  prairie  and 
glen 

There  is  blood  ! — there's  the  voice  of  blood  ! 
It  bids  thee  arouse,  or  the  rust  on  their  chain 
Shall  scar  the  fair  necks  of  your  daughters — a  stain 

Bleach'd  alone  by  your  hearts'  hot  flood  ; 
Your  sons  low  in  manacles  crouch  at  your  feet 
Where  the  prairie-fowl  starts  at  the  young  lamb- 
kins' bleat. 

In  the  fields  where  your  free  dwellings  stood. 


Rouse,  rouse  thee .' — or  purchase  for  Freedom  a 
shroud, 

And  bury  your  hopes  in  her  grave, — 
Then,  hush'd  be  the  glee  of  your  laborers  proud. 
As,  driven  with  the  mule  and  the  ass,  in  a  crowd 

They  slink  to  the  task  of  a  slave, 
With  a  curse  on  their  lip  and  a  scowl  in  their  eye, 
As  they  mope  by  your  tomb-stones  and  tauntingly 
cry — 

"  Ho  !  here  go  the  sons  of  the  brave  ?" 


ELIJAH    P.    LOVEJOY. 

BY  WILLIAM  H.  BURLEIGH. 

Weep — for  a  brother  fallen  ! — weep  for  him 

Who  first  hath  found  a  glorious   martyrdom  ! 

Weep  for  the  broken  heart ! — the  desolate  home, 
Whose  light  of  gladness  is  for  ever  dim ! 
Who  of  us,  next,  on  Slavery's  bloody  altar 

Shall  meet  his  doom  ?     Thou  only  knowest,  God  ! 

Yet  will  we  tread  the  path  our  brother  trod. 
Trusting  in  Thee  !  Our  spirits  shall  not  falter 
Amid  the  darkness  of  the  coming  strife, 

Though  drunk  with  agony  the  soul  should  reel ! 

Here,  Love.ioy  !  on  thy  bloody  grave  we  kneel. 
And  pledge  anew  our  fortune — honor — life — 
All — for  the  slave  ! 

Farewell! — thy  rest  is  won  ! 
One  tear  for  thee— then,  strengthened,  press  we  on  ! 


WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 

BY    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

He  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  threshold  ;  wide 

The  din  of  battle  and  of  slaughter  rose  ; 
He  saw  God  stand  upon  the  weaker  side, 

That  sank  in  seeming  loss  before  its  foes  ; 
Many  there  were  who  made  great  haste  and  sold 

Unto  the  cunning  enemy  their  swords; 
He  scorned  their  gifts  of  fame,  and  power,  and  gold, 

And,  underneath  their  soft  and  flowery  words, 
Heard  the  cold  serpent  hiss ;  therefore  he  went 

And  humbly  joined  him  to  the  weaker  part. 
Fanatic  named,  and  fool,  yet  well  content 

So  he  could  be  the  nearer  to  God's  heart, 
And  feel  its  solemn  pulses  sending  blood 
Through  all  the  wide  spread  veins  of  endless  good. 


L'78 


VOICES    OF   THE    T  R  U  K- HE  A  RT  E  D  , 


A  WORD  FROM  A  PETITIONER. 


BY  JOHN   ^lERt'O^T. 


What !  our  petitions  spurned  !     The  prayer 
Of  thousands, — tens  of  thousands, — cast 

Unheard,  beneath  your  Speaker's  chair  ! 
But  ye  icill  hear  us,  first  or  last. 

The  thousands  that,  last  year,  ye  scorned, 

Are  millions  now.     Be  warned  !     Be  warned  ! 

Turn  not,  contennptuous,  on  your  heel ; — 

It  is  not  for  an  act  of  grace 
That,  suppliants,  at  your  feet  we  kneel, — 

We  stand ; — we  look  you  in  the  face. 
And  say, — and  we  have  weighed  the  word, — 
That  our  petitions  shall  he  heard. 

There  are  two  powers  above  the  laws 
Ye  make  or  mar  : — they're  our  allies. 

Beneath  their  shield  we'll  urge  our  cause, 
Though  all  your  hands  against  us  rise. 

We've  proved  them,  and  we  know  their  might; 

The  CoxsTiTurioN  and  the  Ricnr. 

We  say  not,  ye  shall  snap  the  links 
That  bind  you  to  your  dreadful  slaves  ; 

Hug,  if  ye  will,  a  corpse  that  stinks. 
And  toil  on  with  it  to  your  graves  ! 

But,  that  ye  may  go,  coupled  thus. 

Ye  never  shall  make  slaves  of  us. 

And  what,  but  more  than  slaves,  are  they, 
Who're  told  they  ne'er  shall  be  denied 

The  right  of  prayer ;  yet,  when  they  pray, 
Their  prayers,  unheard,  are  thrown  aside  ? 

{Such  mockery  they  will  tamely  bear, 

Who're  fit  an  iron  chain  to  wear. 

<  The  ox,  that  treadeth  out  the  corn. 

Thou  shalt  not  muzzle.' Thus  saith  God. 

And  will  ye  muzzle  the  free-born, — 
The  maw, — the  owner  of  the  sod, — 

Who  <  gives  the  grazing  ox  his  meat,' 

And  you, — his  servants  here, — your  seat  ? 

There's  a  cloud,  blackening  up  the  sky! 

East,  west,  and  north  its  curtain  spreads  ; 
Lift  to  its  muttering  folds  your  eye  I 

Beware  !  for,  bursting  on  your  heads, 
It  hath  a  force  to  bear  you  down  ; — 
'Tis  an  insulted  people's  frown. 

Ve  may  have  heard  of  the  Soultan, 

And  how  his  Janissaries  fell  ! 
'J'heir  barracks,  near  the  Atmeidan, 

He  barred,  and  fired; — and  their  death-ycil 
Went  to  the  stars, — and  their  blood  ran, 
In  brooks,  across  the  Atmeidan. 


The  despot  spake;  and,  in  one  night. 
The  deed  was  done.     He  wields,  alone. 

The  sceptre  of  the  Ottomite, 

And  brooks  no  brother  near  his  throne. 

Even  now,  the  bow-string,  at  his  beck, 

Goes  round  his  mightiest  subject's  neck  ; 

Yet  will  he,  in  his  saddle,  stoop, — 
I've  seen  him,  in  his  palace-yard, — 

To  take  petitions  from  a  troop 
Ofivomen,  who,  behind  his  guard, 

Come  up,  their  several  suits  to  press, 

To  state  their  wrongs,  and  ask  redress. 

And  these,  into  his  house  of  prayer, 
I've  seen  him  take;  and,  as  he  spreads 

His  own  before  his  Maker  there, 
These  women's  prayers  he  hears  or  reads  ; — 

For,  while  he  wears  the  diadem, 

He  is  instead  of  God  to  them. 

And  this  he  must  do.     He  may  grant. 

Or  may  deny  ;  but  hear  he  must. 
Were  his  Seven  Towers  all  adamant. 

They'd  soon  be  levelled  with  the  dust. 
And  '  public  feeling'  make  short  work, — 
Should  he  not  hear  them, — with  the  Turk- 

Nay,  start  not  from  your  chairs,  in  dread 
Of  cannon-shot,  or  bursting  shell! 

These  shall  not  fall  upon  your  head, 
As  once  upon  j'our  house  they  fell. 

We  have  a  weapon,  firmer  set. 

And  better  than  the  bayonet; — 

A  weapen  that  comes  down  as  still 
As  snow-Hakes  fall  upon  the  sod  ; 

But  executes  a  freeman's  will 

As  lightning  does  the  will  of  God; 

And  from  its  force,  nor  doors  nor  locks 

Can  shield  you  ; — 'tis  the  ballot-box. 

Black  as  your  deed  shall  be  the  balls 
That  from  that  box  shall  pour  like  Kail ! 

And  when  the  storm  upon  you  falls, 

How  will  your  craven  cheeks  turn  pale  ! 

For,  at  its  coming  though  ye  laugh, 

'T  will  sweep  you  from  your  hall,  like  chaff. 

Not  women,  now, — the  people  pray. 

Hear  us, — or  from  us  ye  will  hear! 
Howare  ! — a  desperate  game  yo  play  ! 

The  men  that  thicken  in  your  rear, — 
Kings  though  ye  be, — may  not  be  scorned. 
Look  to  your  move  I  your  stake  ! — Vn  ke  wakni:: 

is:}?. 


VOICES  OF   THE    TRUE-HEARTED. 


279 


THE  TOCSIN. 


BY  JOHX  PIEKPONT. 


'  If  llic  pLil|)it  1)0  silent,  whenever  or  wherever  there  maybe  a 
siiiiu-r,  liUiociy  with  this  guilt,  within  the  hearing  of  jt8 
voice,  thepulpit  is  false  to  its  trust.'-— B.  Websteu. 

Wake  !   children  of  the  men  who  said, 
'All  are  born  free!' — Their  spirits  come 

Back  to  the  places  where  they  bled 
In  Freedom's  holy  martyrdom, 

And  find  yo;f  sleeping  on  their  graves, 

And  hugging  there  your  chains, — ye  slaves  ! 

Ay,— slaves  of  slaves  !     What,  sleep  ye  yet, 
And  dream  of  Freedom,  while  ye  sleep  ? 

Ay, — dream,  while  Slavery's  foot  is  set 
So  firmly  on  your  necks, — while  deep 

The  chain,  her  quivering  flesh  endures, 

Gnaws,  like  a  cancer,  into  yours  ? 

Hah  !  say  ye  that  I've  falsely  spoken, 

Calling  you  slaves  ? — Then  prove  ye're  nol  ,- 

Work  a  free  press  ! — ye'Il  see  it  broken  ;* 
Stand  to  defend  it ! — ye'U  be  shot. f 

O  yes  !  but  people  should  not  dare 

Print  what  '  the  brotherhood'  won't  bear  ! 

Then  from  your  lips  let  words  of  grace. 
Gleaned  from  the  Holy  Bible's  pages, 

Fall,  while  ye're  pleading  for  a  race 

Whose  blood  has  flowed  through  chains  for  ages ; 

And  pray, — '  Lord,  let  thy  kingdom  come  !' 

And  see  if  ye're  not  stricken  dumb. 

Yes,  men  of  God !  ye  may  not  speak. 
As,  by  the  Word  of  God,  ye're  bidden  ; 

By  the  pressed  lip, — the  blanching  cheek. 
Ye  feel  yourselves  rebuked  and  chidden  ■,X 

And,  if  ye're  not  cast  out,  ye  fear  it; — 

And  why  ? — <  The  brethren'  will  not  hear  it. 

Since,  then,  through  pulpit,  or  through  press, 
To  prove  your  freedom  ye're  notable. 

Go, — like  the  Sun  of  Righteousness, 
By  wise  men  honored, — to  a  stable  ! 

Bend  there  to  Liberty  your  knee  ! 

Say  there  that  God  made  all  men  free  ! 

*  Bear  witness,  heights  of  Alton  ! 

i  Bear  witness,  bones  of  Lovejoy! 

t  Bear  witness,  '  Grounds  of  Complaint  preferred 
against  the  Rev,  John  Pierpont,  by  a  Comniitttec  of 
the  Parish,  called  "  The  Proprietors  of  HoUis  street 
Meeting  house,"  to  be  submitted  to  an  Ecclesiastical 
Council,  as  Reasons  for  dissolving  his  Connexion  with 
said  Parish,  July  27th,  1840:  one  of  which  runs  thus  : 
Because  '  of  his  too  busy  interference  with  questions  of 
legislation  on  the  subject  of  prohibiting  the  sale  of 
ardent  spirits  ; — of  his  too  busy  interference  with  ques- 
tions of  legislation  on  tlie  subject  of  imprisonment  for 
debt ; — of  his  too  busy  interference  with  the  popular 
controversy  on  the  subject  of  the  abolition  of  slavery.' 
And  this,  in  the  eighteen  hundred  and  fortieth  year  of 
Him  whom  the  Lord  sent  '  to  proclaim  liberty  to  the 
captives,  and  the  opening  of  the  prison  to  them  that 
are  bound !' 


Even  there, — ere  Freedom's  vows  ye've  plighted, 

Ere  of  her  form  ye've  caught  a  glimpse, 
Even  there  are  fires  infernal  lighted. 

And  ye're  driven  out  by  Slavery's  imps.* 
Ah,  well ! — '  so  persecuted  they 
The  prophets'  of  a  former  day  ! 
Go,  then,  and  build  yourselves  a  hall, 

To  prove  ye  are  not  slaves,  but  men  ! 
Write  '  Freedom,'  on  its  towering  wall ! 

Baptize  it  in  the  name  of  Penn  ; 
And  give  it  to  her  holy  cause, 
Beneath  the  iEgis  of  her  laws  ; — 
Within  let  Freedom's  anthem  swell ; — 

And,  while  your  hearts  begin  to  throb, 
And  burn  within  you Hark  I  the  yell, — 

The  torch, — the  torrent  of  the  Mob  ! — 
They're  Slavery's  troops  that  round  you  sweep. 
And  leave  your  hall  a  smouldering  heap  \-\ 
At  Slavery's  beck,  the  prayers  ye  urge 

On  your  own  servants,  through  the  door 
Of  your  own  Senate, — that  the  scourge 

May  gash  your  brother's  back  no  more, — 
Are  trampled  underneath  their  feet, 
While  ?/e  stand  praying  in  the  street ! 
At  Slavery's  beck,  ye  send  your  sons:): 

To  hunt  down  Indian  wives  or  maids, 
Doomed  to  the  lash! — Yes,  and  their  bones, 

Whitening  'mid  swamps  and  everglades, 
Where  no  friend  goes  to  give  them  graves. 
Prove  that  ye  are  not  Slavery's  slaves ! 
At  Slavery's  beck,  the  very  hands 

Ye  lift  to  Heaven,  to  swear  ye're  free. 
Will  break  a  truce,  to  seize  the  lands 

Of  Seminole  or  Cherokee  ! 
Yes, — tear  ajlag^  that  Tartar  hordes 
Respect,  and  shield  it  with  their  swords  !§ 

*  Bear  witness,  that  large  '  upper  room,'  the  hay-loft 
over  the  stable  of  the  Marlborough  Hotel,  standing 
upon  the  ground  now  covered  by  the  Marlborough 
Chapel ;  the  only  temple  in  Boston,  into  which  the 
fi-iends  of  human  liberty,  that  is,  of  the  liberty  of  man 
as  man,  irrespective  of  color  or  caste,  could  gain  ad- 
mittance for  the  annual  meeting  of  the  Massachusetts 
Anti-Slavery  Society,  January  25th,  1837.  Bear 
witness,  too,  that  smaller  room  in  Summer  street, 
where  a  meeting  was  held  the  same  day,  by  members 
of  the  same  Society  ;  where  their  only  altar  was  an 
iron  stove, — their  only  incense,  the  fumes  of  a  quantity 
of  cayenne  pepper,  that  some  of  the  'imps'  had  sprink- 
led upon  the  hot  stove-plates,  to  drive  the  friends  of 
the  freedom  of  all  men  out  of  that  little  asylum. 

fBear  witness,  ye  ruins  of  '  Pennsylvania  Hall  !' — 
a  heap  of  ruins  made  by  a  Philadelphia  mob.  May 
17th,  1838, — and  allowed  to  remain  a  heap  of  ruins, 
as  I  was  lately  told  in  Philadelphia,  from  tlie  fear,  on 
the  part  of  the  city  government,  that,  should  the  noble 
structure  be  reared  again,  and  dedicated  again  to 
Liberty,  the  fiery  tragedy  of  the  17th  of  May  would  be 
encored. 

\  Bear  witness,  Florida  war,  from  first  to  last. 

§  Bear  witness,  ghost  of  the  great-hearted,  broken- 
hearted Osceola  ! 


280 


^■  O  IC  E  S    OF    T  HE    T  K  U  E  -  H  E  A  KT  E  D. 


Vengeance  is  thine,  Almighty  God! 

To  pay  it  hath  thy  justice  bound  thee  ; 
Even  now,  I  see  thee  take  thy  rod, — 

Thy  thunders,  leashed  and  growling  round  thee ; 
Slip  them  not  yet,  in  mercy  ! — Deign 
Thy  wrath  yet  longer  to  restrain  ! — 

Or, — let  thy  kingdom,  Slavery,  come  ! 

Let  Church,  let  State,  receive  thy  chain! 
Let  pulpit,  press,  and  hall  be  dumb. 

If  so  '  the  brotherhood'  ordain  ! 
The  Muse  her  own  indignant  spirit 
AVill  yet  speak  out ;— and  men  shall  hear  it. 


Yes; — while,  at  Concord,  there's  a  stone 
That  she  can  strike  her  fire  from  etill ; 

While  there's  a  shaft  at  Lexington, 
Or  half  a  one  on  Bunker's  Hill, 

There  shall  she  stand  and  strike  her  lyre. 

And  Truth  and  Freedom  shall  stand  by  her. 

But,  should  she  theiice  by  mobs  be  driven, 
For  purer  heights  she'll  plume  her  wing  ;- 

Spurning  a  land  of  slaves,  to  heaven 
She'll  soar,  where  she  can  safely  sing. 

God  of  our  fathers,  speed  her  thither! 

God  of  the  free,  let  me  go  with  her  ! 
1838. 


ON    THE   DEATH   OF    S.    OLIVER    TORREY, 

Secretary  of  the  Boston  Young  Men's  Anti-Slaverj-  Societj. 


BY  JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 


Gone  before  us,  O  our  brother, 

To  the  spirit-land  I 
A'ainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Who  shall  offer  youth  and  beauty 

On  the  wasting  shrine 
Of  a  stern  and  lofty  duty, 

With  a  faith  like  thine  ? 

Oh  I  thy  gentle  smile  of  greeting 

Who  again  shall  see  ? 
Who,  amidst  the  solemn  meeting, 

Gaze  again  on  thee  ? — 
Who,  when  peril  gathers  o"er  us, 

Wear  so  calm  a  brow  ? 
Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 

So  serene  as  thou? 

Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 

Brother  of  our  love  ! 
Autumn's  faded  earth  around  thee, 

And  its  storms  above  I 
Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly. 

And,  with  future  showers. 
O'er  thy  slumbers  fresh  and  brightly 

Blow  the  summer  ilowers  ! 

In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 

Not  a  silvery  streak  ; 
Nor  a  line  of  sorrow's  tracing 

On  thy  fair  young  cheek  ; 


Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses. 

Such  as  Hylas  wore — 
Over  all,  that  curtain  closes 

\^  hich  shall  rise  no  more  I 

Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 

Round  that  grave  of  thine. 
Mournfully,  like  Jazer  weeping 

Over  Sibmah's  vine — 
Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swelling 

Gentle  hearts,  of  thee. 
In  the  spirit's  distant  dwelling 

All  unheeded  be  ? 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes. 

From  its  journeyings  back  ; 
If  the  immortal  ever  traces 

O'er  its  mortal  track  ; 
Wilt  thou  not,  O  brother,  meet  us 

Sometimes  on  our  way, 
And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 

As  a  spirit  may  ? 

Peace  be  with  thee,  0  our  brother. 

In  the  spirit-land  ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 

All  thy  early  powers, 
Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 

And  thy  spirit  ours  ! 


VOICES  OF  THE  TRUE-HEARTED. 


281 


THE    SLAVE    SHIPS. 

RY  JOHN    G.   WIIITTIEU. 


•  That  fatal,  that  pprfidious  baric. 


Built  i'  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark." 

Milton's  Lycidas. 

The  French shipLo  Rodour,  with  a  crewoftwenty-Uvo 
men,  and  wilh  one  hundred  and  sixty  negro  slaves,  sailed 
from  Bonny  in  Alriea,  April,  1819.  On  approaching  the 
line,  a  terrible  malady  broke  ont — an  obstinate  disease  of 
the  eyes — contagious,  and  aliogelh.er  beyond  the  resources 
ofraeilicine.  It  was  aggravated  by  the  scarcity  of  water 
among  the  slaves,  (only  haii"a  wine  glass  per  day  being 
allowed  to  an  individual,)  and  by  the  extreme  impurity  of 
the  air  in  which  they  breathed.  By  the  advice  of  the 
physician,  they  were  brought  upon  deck  occasionally  ;  but 
some  of  the  poor  wretches,  locking  themselves  in  each 
other's  arms,  leaped  overboard,  in  the  hope,  which  so  uni- 
versally prevails  among  them,  of  being  swiftly  transported 
to  their  own  homes  in  Africa.  To  check  this,  the  captain 
ordered  several,  who  were  stopped  in  the  attempt,  to  be 
shot,  or  hanged,  before  their  companions.  The  disease 
extended  to  the  crow  ;  and  one  after  another  was  smitten 
with  it,  until  only  one  remained  unaffected.  Yet  even 
this  dreadful  condition  did  not  preclude  calculation:  to 
save  the  expense  of  supporting  slaves  rendered  unsaleable, 
and  to  obtain  grounds  for  a  claim  against  the  underwriters, 
thirty-six  of  the  negroes,  iiaving  become  blind,  ttiere 
thrown  into  the  sea  and  drowned  ! 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest  the  solitary 
individual,  whose  si  ^ht  remained  tinafE^cted,  should  also 
be  seized  with  the  malady,  a  sail  was  discovered.  It  was 
the  Spanish  slaver,  Leon.  The  s  ime  disease  had  been 
there  ;  and,  horrible  to  tell,  all  the  crew  had  become  blind  ! 
Unable  to  assist  each  otiier,  the  ve.ssels  pai'ted.  'J'he 
Spanish  ship  has  never  since  been  heard  of.  The  Rodeur 
reached  Guadalonpe  on  the  21st  of  June  ;  the  only  man 
who  had  escaped  the  disease,  and  had  thus  been  enabled 
10  steer  the  slaver  into  port,  caught  it  in  three  days  after 
its  arrival — Speech  of  JM.  Benjamin  Constant,  in  the 
French  Chamber  of  Deputies,  June  17,  1820. 

"  All  ready  ?"  cried  the  captain  ; 

"  Ay,  ay  !"  the  seamen  said  ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust — 
"  Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it — 

Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first !" 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up, — - 

Death  had  been  busy  there  ; 
Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  Spoiler  spare  ? 
Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 

Sullenly  from  the  ship, 
Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 

Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 

Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 

With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 
With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 

And  his  iron  lip  compress'd. 
'<  Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over?" 

Growl 'd  through  that  matted  lip — 
"  The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 

Let's  lighten  the  good  ship." 
26 


Hark  I  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell  ! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron — 

The  maniac's  short,  sharp  yell  ! — 
The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stilled- 

The  starving  infant's  moan — 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Ponr'd  through  a  mother's  groan  ! 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 

The  stricken  blind  ones  came  : 
Below,  had  all  been  darkness — 

Above,  was  still  the  same. 
Yet  the  holy  breath  of  Heaven 

Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 
And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 

Cool'd  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

"  Overboard  with  them,  shipmates  !" 

Cutlass  and  dirk  were  plied  ; 
Fetter'd  and  blind,  one  after  one. 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above — 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth  !  what  cries 
Rang  upward  unto  Thee  ? 

Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 

The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard — 
The  last  wave  caught  its  stain — 

And  the  unsated  shark  look'd  up 
For  human  hearts  in  vain. 


Red  glow'd  the  Western  waters — 

The  setting  sun  was  there, 
Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  clond 

His  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 
Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 

A  solitary  eye 
Gazed,  from  the  burden'd  slaver's  deck. 

Into  that  burning  sky. 

"A  storm,"  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

"  Is  gathering  and  at  hand — 
Curse  on't — I'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land." 
And  then  he  laugh'd — but  only 

His  echo'd  laugh  replied — 
For  the  blinded  and  the  sufTering 

Alone  were  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's  (rack 

'i'he  thunder-gust  was  driven. 


282 


VOICES    OF    THE    T  R  U  E  -  H  E  A  RT  E  D. 


«;  A  sail ! — thank  God,  a  sail !" 
And,  as  the  helmsman  spoke. 

Up  through  the  stormy  murmur, 
A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 

Down  came  the  stranger  vessel 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near,  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
"  Ho  !  for  the  love  of  mercy — 

We're  perishing  and  blind  !" 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind  : 

«'  Help  us  .'  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one  ; 
Ten  days  we've  floated  fearfully, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship  's  the  slaver  Leon — 

We've  but  a  score  on  board — 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over — 

Help— for  the  love  of  God  !" 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone — 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan. 
Wail'd  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry. 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 


In  the  sunny  Gaudaloupe 

A  dark  huU'd  vessel  lay — 
With  a  crew  who  noted  never 

The  night-fall  or  the  day. 
The  blossom  of  the  orange 

Was  white  by  every  stream. 
And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 

Were  in  the  warm  sun-beam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well. 
On  the  palm-trees  by  the  hill-side, 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell ; 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom. 

The  green  earth  ami  tht  sky. 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  ever  darkened  eye  ; 
For,  amidst  a  world  of  beauty, 

The  slaver  went  abroad. 
With  his  ghastly  visage  written 

I^y  the  awful  curse  of  d'od  ! 


HUSBANDS  FOR  FEMALE  PETITIONERS. 

Henrj  A.  Wise  "presented  a  memorial  of  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen of  Halifax  County,  in  the  state  of  Virginia,  praying 
Congress  to  furnish  husbands,  at  public  expense,  to  r.U  female 
petitioners  upon  subjects  relating  to  slavery,  thereby  giving 
direction  to  theirmindR  culculated  to  make  them  good  mat- 
rons, and  averting  the  evils  with  which  the  priestcraft  and  fan- 
aticism of  the  Eastern  states  threaten  the'people  of  the  South 
Journal  of  Congress. 

Furnish  husbands  to  us  .?— where  your  influence  ex- 
tends. 

Do  you  deem  there  are  any  we'd  rank  with  our 
friends  ? — 

That  the  humblest  among  us,  would  e'er  join  her 
hand 

With  one  who  belongs  to  your  soul-selling  band  ? 

No !  though  wand'ring  an  exile  o'er  land  and  o'er 
sea — 

No  !  while  upon  earth  there's    one  spot  for  the  free ! 

Would  we  take  the  protection  your  fetters  bestow  1 
The  kindness  you  force  on  your  relatives  1     No  ! 
Your    sons  and  your   brothers,  vwth  faces  "  so  light 
Unless  closely  ohserv'd  they'd  be  taken  for  white," 
Seek  the  kindness  of  strangers ;— your  daughters  are 

sold 
To  those  v^ho  coin  sinews  and  souls  into  gold. 

But   for   us— (for  the   blessing   we  humbly  thank 

Heaven,) 
To  our  minds  '•  a   direction"'    has  long  since  been 

given 
That   has  made  us  such   •  matrons,'  such  sisters  and 

friends, 
(The  tree  you  know  grows  as  the  slender  twig  bends,) 
euch  teachers,  that  yet  you  may  tremble  and  bow 
To  the  young  sons  of  freemen  were  fostering  now, 

Believe  not  your  MritDF.KS  will  force  them  to  yield  : 
You   will  find  that  "six  Richmonds"  are   left  "in 

the  field  ;" 
Neath    our  banner  of  Freedom,  there   still  will  be 

men 
With  Burleigh's  devotion  and  Whittier's  pen. 

Could  they  see  you  but   pause  in  your  guilt-branded 

course 
With  one  human  feeling,  one  pang  of  remorse, 
They  would  hail  your  repentance  :  And  well  do  you 

know 
From  the  best  purest  fountain  their  warm    feelings 

flow, — 
That  those  feelings  by  insult  and  murder  are  met;— 
But  their^strength  is  from  Hoavcn.— They'll  conquer 

you  yet. 

Nov.   1837. 


VOICES   OF   THE    T  RUE -HE  ARTED, 


283 


"THE    ONE    IDEA." 

EY  SARAH  JANE  CLARKE. 

"  We  hold  tlieso  trtUlis  to  be  self  evident ;  tliat  all  men  are 
created  cqiiul  ;  t'nat  they  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  witli 
certain  inalienable  rights,  that  among  these  are  life,  liberly, 
and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  " 

Our  glorious  one  Idea  ! 

From  the  source  of  life  it  came, 
And  it  shineth  far  and  mounteth  high, 

An  ever  living  flame. 

Then  let  it  burn  !  what  mortal  hand 

Its  fiery  wing  shall  bind? 
For  it  hath  reached  the  moral  wastes, 

The  prairies  of  the  mind  ! 

It  sweepeth  off  the  wild,  rank  growth 

Of  prejudice  and  wrong, 
As,  fanned  by  mighty  viewless  wings, 

It  rolls  and  leaps  along  ! 

Our  men  are  men  of  "  One  Idea  !" 
Ah,  thou  must  elsewhere  turn 

For  gloomy  and  unsocial  churls, 
Ascetics  hard  and  stern 

For  pilgrims  toiling  on  to  pay 

Their  cold  reluctant  vows — 
For  prophets,  in  woe's  sackcloth  clad, 

And  dust  upon  their  brows. 

Thus  come  our  band — impassioned  zeal 
Lights  their  uncowering  eyes, 

And  on  their  brows  a  cheerful  faith 
Like  Heaven's  own  sunshine  lies  ! 

Their  father's  glory,  as  an  Ark, 
Moving  in  light  before  them — 

The  promises  of  Freedom's  God, 
As  rainbows  bending  o'er  them.' 

Their  foes,  like  pirates  half  o'ercome, 
Stand  fierce  and  stern  at  bay, 

Or  like  a  sullen  convict  gang, 
Go  scowling  on  their  way ; — 

But  as  to  some  high  festival. 
Our  glad  band  sweeps  along — 

And  now  rings  out  a  joyous  laugh_. 
And  now  peels  out  a  song  ! 

Their  steeps  keep  time  to  freedom's  march, 

Sounding  within  the  soul, 
And  high,  and  broad,  and  startling  truths 

Their  daring  hands  unroll. 

And  rear  with  bold,  exulting  shouts, 

Aloft  in  freedom's  air. 
Till  they  float  before  a  gazing  world 

As  glorious  baiuiers,  there  I 


Our  wives,  our  girls,  of  "  One  Idea  I" 

In  each  devoted  mind 
It  dwells  in  beauty  and  in  power, 

Like  a  deity  enshrined. 

They  are  no  slavish  devotees. 
Cloistered  in  gloom  and  night, 

Their  life  is  like  a  morn  in  May, 
Flowers,  dew,  and  warm  sunlight : 

The  flowers  of  good  and  modest  deeds. 

The  dew  of  generous  love, 
The  sunlight  of  that  perfect  peace 

Which  Cometh  from  above. 

They  have  that  strong,  brave,  soaring  hope 
Which  true-soul  freedom  brings, 

That  earnest,  fearless,  fervent  faith, 
In  all  good,  blessed  things  I 

That  beautiful,  impassioned  love, 

That  worship  of  the  truth. 
That  flings  around  their  fleeting  years, 

Immortal  bloom  and  youth. 

So  far  beneath  their  lofty  gaze 

Rank's  vain  distinctions  lie, 
They  could  stand  before  a  crowned  queen 

And  look  her  in  the  eye, — 

Then  turn,  and  smile  on  honest  worth, 
Though  Monarchs  on  it  frowned  — 

And  bow  to  royal  intellect, 

Though  by  the  world  uncrowned. 

And  yet  no  stern  Zenobias, 

No  maids  of  Orleans  they, 
Ye  seek  in  vain  their  gentle  forms 

Amid  the  stormy  fray  ; 

But  once  name  Freedom's  holy  war 

A  crusade  mad  and  vain. 
And  dare  to  sneer  at  human  rights, 

As  phantoms  of  the  brain — 

Then  cringe  beneath  each  lightning  glance 
Their  proud  eyes  on  thee  fling, 

As  in  their  souls  the  "  One  Idea" 
Unfurls  its  flashing  wing  ! 

Now  blessed  Father  of  us  all, 

God  of  the  bond  and  free  ! 
Regard  in  mercy  still  our  foes. 

The  foes  of  liberty ! 

Lead  them  from  error's  labyrinth. 

To  tread  the  paths  of  right — 
Pour  on  their  poor  benighted  minds, 

Truth's  clear  and  perfect  light ! 

Oh  !  break  upon  the  sleep  of  death 
That  wraps  their  moral  powers — 

Breathe  in  them  as  a  living  soul, 
'Jhis  "  One  Idea"  of  ours  ! 


284  VOICES    OFTHE    TRUE -HEAR  TED 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 

Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  (Va.)  in  reference  to  CEfKGE  Iatisjer,  the 
alleged  fugitive  slave,  the  result  of  whose  case  in  Massachusetts  will  probably  be  similar  to  that  of  the  negro  Somerset  in 
England,  in  1772. 

Er  JOHN  G.  WHITTIET!. 

The  blast  from  Freedom's  northern  hills,  upon  its  Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia,  from  Massachusetts  Bay: 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  of  horseman's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  highways  go — 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  imtrodden  lies  the  snow; 

And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their  errands  far, 

A  thousand  sails  of  Commerce  swell,  but  none  are  spread  for  War. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia!  thy  stormy  words  and  high 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt  along  our  sky  ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  forgoes  its  honest  labor  here ; 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St.  George's  bank, 

Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and  dank; 

Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist,  stout  are  the  hearts  Avhich  man 

The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea-boats  of  Cape-Ann. 

The  cold  North  light,  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling  with  the  storms; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the  waves  they  roao;, 

They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against  their  rocky  home. 

t 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion?  Hath  she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's  steel  array? 
How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout  Cornwallis,  then? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from  Faneuil  Hall  ? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "  LinEnTr  on  Death  I  " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?     If  now  her  sons  have  proved 
False  to  their  father's  memory — false  to  the  faith  they  loved, 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  Great  Charter  spurn, 
Must  toe  of  Massachusetts  from  Truth  and  Duty  turn  ? 

Wc  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's  hateful  hell — 
Ortr  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  blood-hounds'  yell — 
U^e  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  father's  graves, 
From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your  wretched  slaves  ! 

Thank  God !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts  bow, 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now  ; 

Dream  not  because  her  pilgrim  blood  moves  slow,  and  calm,  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainlcss  neck,  a  sister's  slave  and  tool  ! 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HE  ARTED. 


285 


All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a  free  State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early  day ; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden,  ye  must  stagger  with  alone 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have  sown! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and  burden  God's  free  air 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  manhood's  wild  despair; 
Cling  closer  to  the  <  cleaving  curse'  that  writes  upon  your  plains. 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of  chaiiis. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of  old. 
By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human  flesh  is  sold — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  market  value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the  slaver's  den! 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Virginian  name ; 

Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest  weeds  of  shame  ; 

Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe — 

"We  wash  our  hands  forever,  of  your  sin,  and  shame,  and  curse, 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's  shrine  hath  been. 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's  mountain  men; 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering  still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for  his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of  grey, 
How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the  father's  warning  spoke; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim  city  broke  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on  high. 

A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud  reply  • 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling  summons  rang, 

And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young  mechanics  spran"-. 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex— of  thousands  as  of  one— 
The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington— 
From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages;  from  Plymouth's  rocky  bound 
To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close  her  round  ; 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To  where  Wachusett's  wintry  blasts  the  mountain  larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  <  God  save  Latimer !' 

And  samly  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt  sea  spray — 

And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narragansctt  Bay  ! 

Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the  thrill. 

And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept  down  from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  JMassachusetts  !     Of  her  free  sons  and  daughters- 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud— the  sound  of  many  waters  ! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power  shall  stand  ? 
No  fetters  in  the  Buy  State  !     A'o  slui-e  upon  her  land! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !   In  calmness  we  have  borne, 
In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and  your  scorn  ; 
You've  spurned  our  kindest  counsels— you've  hunted  for  our  lives— 
And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your  manacles  and  gyves  ! 


286 


VOICES   OF   THE   TRUE-HEARTED 


We  wage  no  war— we  lift  no  arm— we  fling  no  torch  within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your  soil  of  sin; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen— to  wrestle  while  ye  can, 
With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  God-like  soul  of  man  ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which  we  have  given 
For  Freedom  and  Humanity,  is  registered  in  Heaven : 

No  slave-hunt  in  uur  borders— no  pinde  on  our  strand  ! 

No  fetters  in  the  Bay  Stale— no  stave  upon  our  Land  ! 


TEXAS. 

THE  VOICE  OF  NEW  EXGLAXD. 


BY    JOHN    G.   WHITTIER. 


Up  the  hill-side,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen, 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men  ! 

Like  a  lion  crouching  low, 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow, 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe, 

It  is  coming— it  is  nigh! 

Stand  your  homes  and  altar  by  ! 

On  your  own  free  hearthstone  die  I 

Clang  the  bells  on  all  your  spires! 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal  fires  ! 

From  Wachusett,  lone  and  bleak. 
Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak. 
Let  the  Ikming  heralds  speak  ! 

O,  for  God  and  Duty  stand 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand 
Round  the  old  graves  of  your  land  ! 

Whoso  shrinks  and  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow. 

We  have  only  left  us  space 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race, — 
Nor  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Like  the  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime, 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time, 

In  the  proud  car  of  the  South. 
With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Utter  Freedom's  mighty  oath  : 


"Make  our  union-bond  a  chain, — 
We  will  snap  its  links  in  twain, 
We  will  stand  erect  again ! 

«  Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays. 
Rather  than  eternal  haze 
Clouding  o'er  the  full -orbed  blaze. 

«'  Keep  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom, 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  forge  and  plough  and  loom. 

"Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales, 
Give  us  but  our  own  free  gales 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

"  Live  as  paupers,  mean  and  vile 
On  the  fruits  of  unpaid  toil, 
Locusts  of  your  glorious  soil ! 

"  Live,  if  it  be  life  to  dwell 

In  your  tyrant  citadel. 

Mined  beneath  by  fires  of  hell  ! 

cc  Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow. 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow. 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow. 

"And,  when  vengeance  lights  your  skies. 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes 
As  the  damned  on  Paradise  ! 

"  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand. 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band. 
Freedom's  brown  and  honest  hand, 

"Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod. 
And  the  pilgrim's  rugged  sod 
Blessed  of  our  father's  God  !" 


VOICES   OF    THE  TRUE-HEARTED.  287 


THE    BRANDED    HAND. 

BY   JOHN    G.  WIIITTIER. 

In  1836,  Capt.  Jonathan  Walker,  a  citizen  of  MassachiTsotts,  rcmovoil  with  liis  family  to  FloriJa,  and  in  that  terri- 
tory resided  till  18J2,  when  he  relurnod  to  his  native  State.  During  his  residence  at  the  South,  he  hind,  but  never 
oiii/icf^  slaves— and  while  they  were  in  his  employ,  he  treated  them  as  our  Noitliern  (turners  and  mechanics  are 
accustomed  to  treat  their  laborers— recognizing  their  rights  as  7nen.  instead  oi  regarding  ihem  as  "  chatlvls personal." 
While  this  course  won  the  confidence  and  good  will  of  the  slaves,  it  was  anything  but  agreeable  to  the  slaveholders. 

In  pursuance  of  his  lawful  business,  Captain  Walker  visited  Pcnsacola,  in  the  month  of  June,  1844.  While  there, 
seven  men— the  same,  we  understand,  who  had  worked  for  him  iliiring  his  residence  in  Florida— ajjplied  to  him  for 
a  passage  lo  Nassau,  where  thev  might  enjoy  that  Liherty  which  is  the  inalienable  right  of  ail.  Captain  Walker, 
in  obedience  to  the  great  law  of  humanity,  received  them  on  board  his  vessel— a  small,  open  boat— and  proceeded 
along  the  coast,  towards  the  destined  haven.  Exposed  to  the  broiling  sun,  Capt.  Walker  was  soon  taken  sick,  and 
contniucd  very  ill  for  many  days.  On  the  8th  of  July,  when  olf  Cape  Florida,  they  were  discovered  by  a  wrecker, 
which  took  them  all  captive — as  clear  an  act  oi  piracy  as  was  ever  committed  upon  the  high  seas.  They  were  taken 
into  Key  West,  where  Capt.  Walker  was  thrust  into  jail,  loaded  with  double  irons— ihcnce  he  was  conveyed  in  the 
hold  of  a  United  States  vessel,  to  Pensacola,  where  he  was  examined  befijre  a  magistrate  and  conmiitied  lo  prison  in 
default  of  $10,000  bail.  Though  greatly  emaciated,  and  in  feeble  health,  he  was  thrust  into  a  cell  unsupplicd  with 
either  chair,  table,  or  bed,  and  was  chained  to  the  floor.  Ko  physician  was  sent  him,  and  no  attention  whatever  was 
paid  to  his  enfeebled  condition.  Here  ho  remained  till  the  following  November,  when  he  was  taken  before  the 
United  States  Court,  tried  and  convicted  upon  four  indictments,  ibr  aiding'the  escape  of  slaves,  and  sentenced  to 
pay  a  fine  of  8150,  stand  in  the  pillory  one  hour,  be  branded  with  the  letters  S.  S.  (slave  stealer)  on  the  right  hand, 
and  suffer  imprisonment  fifieen  days.  The  whole  sentence  was  carried  into  execution — the  branding^was  done  by 
binding  his  hand  lo  a  post,  and  applying  a  red  hot  iron  lo  the  palm,  which  left  the  letters  an  inch  long  and  about  an 
eighth  of  an  inch  deep.  The  branding'was  performed  by  a  recreant  yankee  from  Rlaine,  whose  name  is  Doiiii.  Let 
it  be  embalmed  in  eternal  infamy.  "  After  the  fifteen  days  of  imprisonmnet  had  expired,  he  \\as  retained  in  con.se- 
quence  of  inabiliiy  to  pay  the  fine  and  costs  of  court,  amounting  to  something  over  §400.  On  the  6th  of  February 
last,  while  yet  in  prison,  three  more  indictments  were  found  against  him  for  aidiiig  slaves  lo  escape.  On  the  9th  of 
May  he  was  tried,  found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to  pay  a  fine  of  $5  on  each  offence.  This  was  the  smallest  sum  the 
law  would  allow,  and  Capt-  Walker  returned  his  thanks  lo  the  Jury  for  their  leniency.  On  the  16th  of  June  he  was 
liberated  by  the  assistance  of  friends,  who  paid  the  fine,  and  on  the  10th  of  July  last  arrived  in  New  York." 

Welcome  home  again,  brave  seaman  !  with  thy  thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 
And  tire  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better  day — 
With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose  steady  nerve,  in  vain, 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery  shafts  of  pain  ! 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee  ?     Did  the  brutal  cravens  aim 
To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood.  His  holiest  work  thy  shame  ? 
When  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the  iron  was  withdrawn. 
How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to  scorn  ! 

They  change  to  wrong,  the  duty  which  God  hath  written  out 

On  the  great  heart  of  Humanity  too  legible  for  doubt! 

They,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched  from  foot-sole  up  to  crown, 

Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  to  honor  and  renown ! 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor !— than  its  traces  never  yet 
Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a  prouder  blazon  set ; 
And  thy  unborn  generations  as  they  crowd  our  rocky  strand,  ' 
Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their  father's  branded  hand! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcomed,  bearing  back  from  Syrian  wars, 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances,  and  of  Paynim  scimetars. 

The  pallor  of  the  prison  and  the  shackle's  crimson  span. 

So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend  of  God  and  man  ! 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Redeemer's  grave. 
Thou  for  His  living  presence  in  the  bound  and  bleeding  slave; 
He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels  trod. 
Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home  of  God  ! 

For,  while  the  jurist  sitting  with  the  slave-whip  o'er  him  swung, 

From  the  tortureil  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of  slavery  wrung. 

And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God-deserted  shrine, 

Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the  bondman's  blood  for  wine  - 


288 


VOICES    OF    THE    TRUE-HEARTED 


While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far  off  Saviour  knelt; 
And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  present  Saviour  dwelt ; 
Thou  beheld'st  Him  in  the  task-field,  in  tl>e  prison  shadows  dim, 
And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy  unto  Him  ! 

In  thy  lone  and  long  night  watches,  sky  above  and  wave  below, 

Thou  did'St  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  babbling  schoolmen  know ; 

God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee  a?  His  angels  only  can, 

That  the  one,  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope  of  heaven  is  jian  ! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law  and  creed. 
In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find  mercy  in  his  need  ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  soul  with  chain  and  rod, 
And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of  God  ! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right  hand,  bold  ploughman  of  the  wave  ! 
Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy  '  Salvation  to  the  Sl^veI' 
Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso  reads  may  feel 
His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews  change  to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our  northern  air — 
Ho  !  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God  look  there ! 
Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard — like  the  Bruce's  heart  of  yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand  be  seen  before  '. 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave  land  shall  tremble  at  that  sign, 
When  it,points  its  fingers  southward  along  the  Puritan  line : 
Woe  to  the  state's  gorged  leeches,  and  the  church's  locust  band. 
When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts  on  the  coming  of  that  Hand! 


TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVEKTURE. 

BY  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

Toussaint!— thou  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 

Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tends  his  plough 

Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den  ; 
Oh,  miserable  chieftain  ! — where  and  when 

Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?— Yet,  die  not;  do  thou 

Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow : 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again. 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee  ;  air,  earth,  and 
skies, — 
There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 

That  will  forget  thee:  thou  hast  great  allies  ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies. 

And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 


LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT. 

BY  JOHN   G.  WHITXrER. 
"Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  Prophets."— Holy  \Vk;t. 

Yes— pile  the  marble  o'er  him !     It  is  well 

That  ye  who  mocked  him  in  his  long  stern  strife, 
And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his  life 

The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred,  hot  from  hell, 
\\  ho  clamored  down  the  bold  reformer  when 
He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow  men. 

Who  spurned  him  in  the  market-place,  and  sought 
Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tamany,  to  bind 

In  party  chains  the  free  and  honest  thought, 
'J'he  angel  utterance  of  an  upright  mind, — 

Well  it  is  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye  raise 
The  stony  tribute  of  your  tardy  praise, 
For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to  Fame 

Oflhe  brave  iicart  beneath,  but  of  the  builders"  shami- 


R<j 


YD  278C2 


